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An Illustrated Monthly 


Vol. XLI11. 

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AIR FROM VERDI, AN Morley Roberts. 49 

Illustrations by W. R. S. Stott. 


Illustrations by Lawson Wood. 


Illustrations from Facsimiles. 

BACON, A.R.A., MR. J. H. F., INTERVIEW WITH. How the Coronation Picture was Painted . . 516 
Illustrations from Sketches. 

BEAUTY-METER, THE E.S. Valentine. 429 

Illustrations from Photographs and Diagrams. 


Illustrations by H. M. Brock, R.I. 


Illustrations from Photographs and Diagrams 


Illustrations by W. E. Wigfull, and from Photographs and Diagrams. 

BLACK PEARLS OF BALGARNO, THE Horace Annesley Vachell. 123 

Illustrations by Alec Ball. 

BLANCHARD'S PASSENGER .. .. Morley Roberts. 419 

Illustrations by L. Daviel. 

BOY WHO READ KIPLING, THE lustin Philips. 646 

Illustrations by W. Dewar. 

BRIDE OF TO-DAY, THE. How Wedding Customs Have Changed . . 269 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


BRITAIN DISARMED, IF. What Would the Nation Gain and Lose ? 412 

Illustrations by George Morrow. 

BUSY MEN WORK, HOW. A Symposium of Eminent Successful Men 501 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Facsimiles. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by H. M. Brock, R.I. 

CORONATION PICTURE WAS PAINTED, HOW THE. Interview with Mr. J. H. F. Bacon, A.R.A. 516 
Illustrations from Sketches. 


Illustrations by W. E. Wigfull. 
CURIOSITIES ii7,238,358,479*598,7i9 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 



Illustrations from Photographs. 

"DOG, THE BEST I EVER SAW" Well-knouw Authorities. 691 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

ERRANTRY, AN lustin Philips. 539 

Illustrations by Alec Ball. 
FATHER, THE Violet M. Methley. 630 

Illustrations by Gilbert Holiday. 

FEATHER OF FINIST THE FALCON, THE. A Story for Giildren 590 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 

"FINEST FLOWER I EVER GREW, THE." A Symposium of Socialists in the Cultivation of 

Popular Flowers 567 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

GILDED CAGE, THE ^ , . . t ._ . . Dorothea Deakin. 326 

Illustrations by C. H. Taffe. ' ' 











PAG1 . 

£. Phillips Oppenheim. 308 

P. G. Wodehouse. 20 

Z)r. Russell Kelso Carter (** Orr Kenyon '). 
.Max Rittcnberg. 

28 ^ 



Roland Dunster. 205 

Austin Philips. 274 

Arthur Morrison. 531 

Arthur Morrison. 445 

Richard Marsh. 


Illustrations by W. R. S. Stott. 

Illustrations by Joseph Simpson, R.B.A. 


Illustrations from a Photograph and from Drawings 


Illustrations from Photographs and Old Prints. 


Illustrations from Photograph*?. 


Illustrations by Gilbert Holiday. 


Illustrations by W. Dewar. 


Illustrations by Septimus Scott. 


Illustration; by Steven Spurrier. 

JAPANESE BAYARD, THE. The Story of the Strangest Career in History 
Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


VL — " Aild Lang Syne " 


VIII.— Was It by Chance Only ? 

IX.— " Uncle Jack " 

X.— The Restaurant Napolitain 

Illustrations by J. R. Skelton. 


Illustrations from Photographs, 

Illustrations from Photographs 

Illustrations from Facsimiles. 

LIP-READING. The Art of Judith Lee 

Illustrations from Photographs by F. G. Hodsoll. 

LITTLE BEAR'S SON. A Story for Children 104 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 

Illustrations by Harry Rountree. 

LITTLE HUMPBACKED HORSE, THE. A Storv tor Children 710 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 

LOST WORLD, THE 4rthur Conan Doyle. 363, 483, 603 

Being an account of the recent amazing adventures of Professor George E. Challenger, Lord John 
Roxton, Professor Summerlee, and Mr. E. D. Malone of the " Daily Gazette." 
Illustrations by Harry Rountree and the late Maple White. 

"LOVE A DISEASE? IS" William Broum, M.A., DSc. 9 S 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

MAN WHO DISLIKED CATS, THE P. G. Wodehouse. 507 

Illustrations by Joseph Simpson, R.B.A. 

MARTIN THE PEASANTS SON. A Story for Children 229 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 

MAUDE, CYRIL. Stories I Have Heard and Told 549 

Illustrations by E. A. Morrow. 


Illustrations from Photographs and Old Prints. 

MEN WORK, HOW BUSY. A Symposium of Eminent Successful Men 501 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

MESMERIC LADY. THE Florence Warden. 699 

Illustrations by T. Peddie. 

MR. BODKIN, ZOOLOGIST Leonard Uukin. 216,451 

Illustration* by J A. Shepherd 


Paintings, and Facsimiles. 






C. Sibley Haycock. 14 

Mary Tennyson. 22 

Ronald Graham. 472 

Perceval Gibbon. 522 

..T.C. Bridges. 705 

P. G. Wodehouse. 137, 290, 401 

iv. INDEX 


MYSTERY OF THE " PARABELLA," THE Philip Cardinal. 72 

Illustrations by Hal Hurst. 

NOT IN THE NEWSPAPERS Austin Philips. 186 

Illustrations by Albert Gilbert. 

PERPLEXITIES. Puzzles and Solutions Henry E. Dudeney. 115, 228, 357, 478, 597 718 

Illustrations from Diagrams. 

PICTURE-BUILDING. A New Pastime Stephen Hallctt, 60 

Illustrations from Composite Drawings. 


Illustrations from Paintings and from Photographs. 


Illustrations by C. H. Taffs. 


Illustrations by W. E. Wigfull. 


Illustrations by Dudley Hardy, R.L 


Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 


Illustrations by Rene Bull. 

PUZZLES, A PAGE OF NEW II. M. Haskell. 477 

Illustrations by the Author. 

RACE? WHICH IS THE FINEST. A Symposium of Artists, Scientists, Athletes, and Travellers .. 148 
Illustrations from Photographs. 

" REMINISCENCES, MY " Sun Vat Sen. 301 

Illustrations from Photographs and Facsimiles. 

SCOUT LAW Mary Tennyson. 388 

Illustrations by H. M. Brock, R.L 

SECRET, THE Austin Philips. 87 

Illustrations by C. H. Taffs. 

SNAIL, THE. HOW DOES IT WALK, SMELL, AND SEE? .. .. John J. Ward, F.E.S. 81 

Illustrated with Original Photographs by the Author. 


II. — Harrow — Marlborough—Uppingham 65 

III.— Haileybury— Rugby— Rossall 168 

SPEAKER'S CHAIR, FROM BEHIND THE Sir Henry Lucy. 131,321,386 

Illustrations by E. T. Reed. 

SPORTS OF MUGBY Irlhur Morrison C6 3 

Illustrations by Emile Verpilleux. 

" STARS " AND THEIR STRUGGLES. Illustrations by W. E. Wigfull, and from Photographs . . 197 
Lina Cavalieri, Marie Lloyd, Auguste Van Biene, Edmuni Payne, and Maurice Farkoa 


Illustrations by E. A. Morrow. 

SUN, WIND, AND WAVE. How They May Provide the Power of the Future .. Arthur T. Dolling 674 
Illustrations from Diagrams. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from a Photograph and from Drawings. 

UNDERGRADUATES DETERIORATED? HAVE. A Symposium of University Authorities .. .. 44 
Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

WASSILY THE UNLUCKY. A Story for Children 464 

Illustrations by II. R. Millar. 

WHYMPER, EDWARD, AS I KNEW HIM Coulson Kernahan. 635 

Illustrations by Steven Spurrier. 

"YOUR GODS ARE NOT MY GODS ' lid:, a>d Cecil. & 

Illustrations bv Tom Peddie. 



C^f\r%ct\i* Original from 




(£*<? page 13,) 

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Illustrated Ly J* R- Skelton, 

VL- — "Aulcl Lang Syne/ % 

XE of the few cases in which 
I had any association with 
the police was in connection 
with the affair of the shoot- 
ing in Great Glenn Street, 

There was, about that time, 
an epidemic of shooting in 
that part of London in which the inhabitants, 
for the most part, are certainly not natives 
of the great city. The police had made a 
raid upon a club which they had reason to 
believe was in reality nothing but a gambling 
house* On their gaining entrance the lights 
had been extinguished and firearms had been 
used by persons who, in the darkness, had 
been invisible, Three of the constables had 
been shot — one of them had been killed on 
the spot, the two others seriously wounded. 
In the confusion the assassins hud escaped. 
My Connection with the matter began on a 
Tuesday morning, some three weeks after 
the tragedy had taken place. On the pre- 
ceding afternoon an arrest had been made 

in a house in Park Street* The man had 
made a desperate resistance ; there had been 
shooting on both sides. He had actually 
killed two officers before he himself was 
rendered helpless. On the Tuesday morning 
of which I speak I had business in the City, 
I learnt, casually, that Park Street was quite 
close to the spot to which my business took 
me. I thought I would go and see what sort 
of place it was ; but only persons who could 
prove that they had business there were 
allowed to pass into it. 

When 1 saw the crowds which thronged 
the approaches I wished to go no farther. I 
never saw such faces. Seldom has that gift 
of mine for reading what people are saying 
merely by watching their lips had on me a 
more curious effect. 

On the fringe of the crowd on my right was 
a thin, undersized, yet intellectual -looking 
man, on whose sallow checks the blue begin- 
nings of a beard lent him an appearance 
which was almost ghastly. There could b$ 



no doubt that he was a foreigner, and one 
who was ill at ease. He kept giving furtive 
glances round him. as if he feared that some- 
thing unpleasant might come at any moment 
from either side. Presently something did 
come. A ginger-haired man, with a greasy 
cloth cap on the back of his head, came 
shambling past me. He paused as if to look 
about him. A more unpleasant -looking 
person one could 
hardly imagine* 
Suddenly he 
caught sight of 
the individual I 
had been observ- 
ing. As he did so 
his whole being 
changed. It re- 
minded me of 
what one reads 
of the wild beast 
which bristles 
and quivers at 
the sight of its 
prey. Moving 
stealthily to- 
wards the man 
with the sallow 
cheeks^ he grip- 
ped him by the 
shoulder. The 
man , springing 
from the ground f 
leaped forward 
as if to tear him- 
self free, but he 
of the ginger hair 
had him in too 
fast a hold. 
They eyed one 
another. Worcls 
came from the 
sallow man's lips, 
a torrent of 
them ; I could 
see them, but what they meant I had no 
notion. They were in a language of which 
I had no knowledge, 

One thing was evident from the words I saw 
him utter — he spoke with a strong accent, 
I had a vague general idea, but his exact 
words I could not have reproduced. The 
ginger-haired man turned round so that I 
could see the whole of his face. There was 
no mistaking what he said, The words he 
uttered were sufficiently startling : — 

" I've only got to say a word to these 
blokes here, and they would tear you to 
pieces. You mind what you're saying," 

Digitized by GoOSfe 


Whatever the other might have been say- 
ing, the ginger-haired man's words affected 
him in a manner which it was not pleasant 
to see. There was an odd movement in his 
throat, as if there were something the matter 
with the muscles. Then he spoke agairij just 
two or three words. That time I could see 
what he said- 
*' You go away — you let me go. ,J 

" If I let you 
go j where shall 
I see you to- 
night ? Don't 
you make any 
mistake about it, 
I've got to see 

The other 
replied : — 

" Why have 
you got to see 
nie? What for?" 
" Someone will 
be on the road to 
the gallows by 
this time to-mor- 
row if I don't see 
you to - night— 
and you know 
who. 1 ' It was 
obvious from the 
sallow man's 
bearing that he 
did, I was con- 
scious of an un- 
comfortable sen- 
sation as I re- 
alized the fact. 
The g i n ger- 
haired man went 
on : 4( That is, if 
they don't out 
him before the 
hangman does, 
I've only got to 
say half - a - dozen words and the hang- 
man will never have his chance — these here 
coves would do him out of his job." 

The look in the sallow man's eyes became 
accentuated, but for the moment the faculty 
of speech had gone, The ginger-haired man 
continued instead. 

" All right } you needn't speak if it hurts 
you to try, I shall be at Sam's to-night at 
ten sharp, I shan't stop if I don't find you 
there ■ I shall go straight off and make a few 
remarks to some gentlemen who will pay me 
handsomely for every one of them — and 
don't you make any mistake about it," 
Original from 



The instant he disappeared the sallow- 
faced man slipped into a street which was in 
front on the right. 

I also departed — in a singularly disturbed 
state of mind. In the first place, I wished 
that I had never come ; and in the second, I 
had a most uncomfortable feeling that by my 
coming I had placed myself in possession of 
information for which, figuratively, all London 
was groping. This feeling of discomfort was 
strengthened by an incident which imme- 
diately followed. 

A few paces ahead two men were strolling 
side by side. They were apparently foreigners 
of the decent mechanic class. At the end of 
the street they stopped. One of them turned 
towards the other. I saw him say : — 

" Come into Sam's ; I'll introduce you." 

At the corner where they were standing 
was a shop-front which reminded me of a 
type of cafi one finds abroad. There was a 
good-sized window ; the lower half was 
painted a deep chocolate colour ; across the 
upper half a muslin curtain was drawn which 
badly needed washing. It was to the building 
to which this window belonged that the 
speaker had referred with a motion of his 
hand. Sam's ? The ginger-haired man had 
advised the sallow-faced alien to meet him at 
Sam's at ten o'clock. Could this be the 
Sam's to which he had referred ? The pair in 
front passed through a swing-door. I hesi- 
tated. There was nothing to show what the 
place might be — no name, no sign, no any- 
thing. I saw two constables advancing 
towards me. I addressed them. 

" Can you tell me what that place is ? " 

I motioned towards the window at the 
corner of the street. They eyed me with 
what seemed inquiring glances. 

" That's Sam's," said one ; as he said it 
he smiled, as if something in my question had 
amused him. 

" Are ladies admitted ? " 

" Ladies ? Well, I don't know about 
ladies — it depends upon what you call ladies. 
Chaps take their wives and sweethearts, and 
plenty of women — respectable women — go in 
there by themselves ; but as for ladies — 
well, begging your pardon, I don't suppose 
many of Sam's lady customers pay quite so 
much for their frocks as I dare say you do." 

" Is the proprietor's name Sam ? " 

" I don't suppose he pays rates and taxes 
under that name, if that is what you mean. 
I fancy he is a Pole or a Russian, though he 
speaks English as well as you or I do ; but 
everybody about here knows him as Sam." 

That night I paid a visit to Sam's. I had 

Digitized by Lit 

to go, drawn there by a magnet which was 
stronger than I. The compelling cause was 
the little scene which I had witnessed between 
those two men. If they would be there I felt 
that I must be ; that I had to be there, if 
only to see if they were. I could not make up 
my mind whether I should, or should not, 
communicate with the police. I had an 
intuition that if that meeting did take place, 
confidences might be exchanged which the 
police might consider it extremely desirable 
that they should share. And yet — I could 
not decide. Not improbably a telephone 
was available at Sam's ; in a moment a 
message might be sent to the nearest station ; 
I could give them notice, at the last minute, 
that assistance might be required, in time for 
it to reach me. 

It was about twenty minutes to ten when 
I arrived at Sam's. I need hardly say that 
I was not wearing the frock to whose cost the 
policeman had rather pointedly alluded, for 
I had no wish to have the attention of Sam's 
customers attracted to the splendours of my 
costume. I passed the place four or five 
times before I actually entered. 

When I was in I wondered why I had 
hesitated as to entering. It seemed quite 
respectable and fairly clean ; and some of 
the customers, both male and female, were of 
a better class than I had expected from what 
the policeman said. 

The apartment into which one came after 
passing the doors was a good large one. I 
dare say there were between twenty and thirty 
marble-topped tables, some of them quite 
large ones. At nearly all of them people 
were seated ; trade was brisk, and there was 
a babel of voices. I took my seat at a table 
at which there were already a couple seated. 
In the hasty glance which I had given round 
the place I had been unable to discover either 
of the actors in. the scene of the morning. 
Most of the people seemed to be drinking 
coffee. I ordered a cup. As it was being 
brought I looked carefully round ; the whole 
place was visible from where I sat ; it was 
certain that neither of the men was there. 
I glanced at the clock. It wanted four or five 
minutes to ten. I sipped my coffee when it 
came, and found it surprisingly good. 

What the people around were talking about 
I had not a notion ; watching their lips told 
me nothing. I had a feeling that more than 
one language was being spoken. If there 
were a dozen, they were all equally unknown 
to me. 

The minutes passed. It was just on ten 
o'clock when the swing-door opened and the 



man with the ginger hair looked in. He was 
probably the only Englishman there. I 
thought of what I had heard of the unpleasant 
type of countenance found among low-class 
aliens. He was to my mind by far the 
most unpleasant-looking creature there. He 
glanced round. Not seeing the person he 
sought, he came farther in and searched more 
minutely. He glanced at the clock, hesitated, 
then took a seat at a table near the door. He 
ordered a cup of coffee from the waiter. 
When it came he began to swallow it in little 
gulps, glancing every moment at the clock. 
The minute-hand marked ten minutes past. 
He emptied his cup and rose to his feet, 
muttering something to himself. He might 
as well have shouted at the top of his voice ; 
it could not have been more audible to me. 
His face seemed to be distorted by a sudden 
frenzy of rage. 

" Fll pay him ! " Those were the three 
words he muttered ; they were followed by 
a string of oaths. Then he moved as if to 
go, and as he did so the sallow-faced man 
came in. 

In the white glare of the electric light he 
seemed sallower than ever. He was a curious 
figure as he stood there with one hand still 
on the swing-door ; so short, so slight, such 
a bundle of nerves ; yet, as it were, all 
instinct with electricity. When he saw the 
ginger-haired man he held himself straighter, 
as if he had stiffened ; as in the morning, a 
look came into his eyes which was half rage, 
half terror. No greetings were exchanged. 
The new-comer placed himself on a vacant 
chair. The ginger-haired man sat down on 
the opposite side of the table. From where 
I was I could see them perfectly. Then the 
ginger-haired man said : — 

" Another half minute and you'd have been 
too late." 

The sallow man, resting his arms on the 
table, seemed to consider the other's face. 
Then he spoke in what was no doubt a 
whisper, which only reached the ears of the 
man whom he addressed. His accent must 
have been less marked than it had been in the 
morning, because I saw so clearly what he 

" What do you think to gain by going to 
the police ? " 

" They offer a reward, don't they ? " 

" I see — it is like that — it is the money you 
are after ; so ! " 

" You take care what you're saying ; you 
keep a gag on that tongue of yours, or you'll 
be sorry." 

" You continually threaten. If it was me 

Digitized by G< 

you threatened I would not mind — not that." 
He made a little movement with his hand. 
" But my friends — my brother — that is 
another thing." The speaker leaned farther 
forward ; probably he dropped his voice 
still more. " You are a brave man to 
threaten, to my face, to sell my brother to 
the police for money." 

The only effect which his words had on the 
ginger-haired man was to make him angry. 

" Do you think I'm afraid of you, or of 
your friends either ? I'll learn you, if you 
talk to me like that. I'll call Sam over here 
and tell him right out what will settle you 
and your brother too ! " 

" My brother did not mean to shoot them." 

" What do I care ? You tell that to the 
police ; it don't interest me." 

"He was a fool. He meant to frighten 
them ; but he had the wrong pistol, and in 
the dark he did not know it. He thought 
the pistol was loaded with blank cartridge." 

" I say again, you tell that to- the police ; 
it don't interest me. I don't care what he 
meant to do or what he did ; that's his affair, 
not mine. It's business I'm after." 

" What do you mean by * it's business 
you're after ' ? What do you want from 

The ginger man had been sitting back in 
his chair. Now he also leaned over the table, 
so that their faces almost met. He uttered 
one word : " Money ! " 

" So ! It is money you want from me ? 
You know very well I have no money." 

" I know that I want a hundred pounds 
from you — and I know I'm going to get it." 

" You're a fool ! I have no hundred pounds, 
nor have I the moon." 

" You're going to pay me by instalments, 
so much a week, until the whole is paid. 
You're going to start by giving me this week 
five golden goblins." 

" I tell you I have not the money ; I do 
not know where to find it." 

" How much have you got on you ? " 

" Three or four shillings — and that is all 
the money I possess." 

" Hand it over." - 

The sallow-faced man stared as if he did 
not comprehend. 

" But if I give you all that I have got I 
shall have nothing left. I do not know 
where the next money is to come from ; I 
shall have hone with which to buy food for 

" You hand over what you've got, and 
you turn your pockets inside out to prove 
that it's all you've got." 

-'I I >- 1 1 1 I u I 



" Do you think I am the sort that will let 
himself be robbed by such as you ? And if 
I say ' No/ what then ? " 

" Your brother will be in quod to-night — 
that's what then. I'll begin by telling Sam 
and the blokes here that you're the brother 
of the chap that's wanted for the shooting 
in Great Glenn Street; they'll look after you. 
Then there'll be someone who'll get him — 
don't you make any mistake about it." 

The sallow man's big eyes seemed to have 
grown on a sudden still larger, as if they had 
been distended by the stress of his emotion. 
His lips twitched. " 

" You don't know where he is ! " 

The ginger-haired man did not respond 
upon the instant. Possibly, realizing how the 
other hung upon his expected answer, he 
chose to play upon his feelings. When he 
did speak it was with that hideous grin which 
made his evil face seem positively diabolical. 

" Oh, yes, I do know ; I know as well as 
you do — perhaps better." 

" Then where is he ? " 

" You precious brother is at No. 3, James 
Buildings, in the third-floor front — that's 
where he is. The room don't belong to him ; 
it belongs to a lady, and the rent's a week 
behind. Perhaps that's news to you. The 
lady is trying to find the money to-night to 
pay the rent in the morning." 

" How do you know ? " 

" That's tellings, how I know. I've a way 
of finding out things when I want to. Look 
here, I've had enough of talking. Are you 
going to hand over ? " 

" I will give you a shilling to-night, and I 
will see if I can find some more for you in the 

" A shilling ! My crikey, there's gene- 
rosity ! A shilling for your brother's life ! 
Chuck that ! You'll not only hand over all 
the coin you've got, you'll give me your watch 
and chain and every blessed thing you've got 
about you. And if you can't find me some 
more by the morning, I'll have the clothes 
off. your back. That's what you're going to 
give me as a start for your brother's life, my 
lad. Quick, too ! Haild over, now, or I'll 
call Sam. Which is it to be ? " 

The ginger-haired man stretched out a 
huge, filthy hand, palm uppermost, across the 
table. The other met his eyes, saw what was 
in them, then proceeded to empty the contents 
of his pockets into the upturned palm — a 
pocket-knife, a wooden pencil, a packet of 
cigarettes, all sorts of oddments, even to his 
pocket-handkerchief. Still the ginger-haired 
man was not satisfied. 

Digitized by ^OOQ Ic 

" Sure that's all ? There's not much here, 
you know. You haven't got a revolver ? 
It's not a nice thing to carry about with you 
if it's loaded." 

" I have nothing of the kind, I swear to 
you. I never had such a thing; I am not 
that sort of man." 

" I thought you might have your brother's. 
If you haven't, perhaps you'll be able to get 
it for me. I shall be at the corner of Market 
Street at half-past eleven to-morrow morning. 
I am going to have five pounds out of you 
somehow this week, or — you know what. 
And don't you dare to be ten minutes late." 

The ginger-haired man rose from his chair, 
thrusting the other's miserable belongings 
into the side-pocket of his jacket as he did so. 
Then, pushing the swing-door back, he passed 
into the night. 

I was endeavouring to make up my mind 
what course I ought to pursue. As I watched 
the sallow man I kept repeating to myself, 
" 3, James Buildings." There could be no 
doubt who was the occupant of that third- 
floor front ; or, at least, it seemed to be 
clearly my duty to give the police the earliest 
possible opportunity of resolving what little 
doubt there was. I asked the waiter, who 
was a dwarf-like person with scarcely a hair 
on his parchment-coloured scalp, if there was 
a telephone in the house. He informed me 
that there was not, but that there was a 
public telephone within a couple of minutes' 
walk. While I was speaking to the waiter 
the sallow man, getting quickly off his chair, 
went swiftly through the swing-doors. Follow- 
ing him in less than half a minute, I found 
him on the pavement without, talking to a 
young woman who had a check shawl drawn 
over her head. They were carrying on what 
seemed to be an animated conversation, in 
what was probably a foreign tongue. Cutting 
it suddenly short, he went hurrying down the 
street at what was very nearly a run. The 
girl stood looking after him. Then, I pre- 
sume, hearing my footsteps, she glanced 
round towards me. She had quite a pleasant 
face ; was scarcely more than a child — pos- 
sibly seventeen or eighteen ; but in her eyes 
was that uncomfortable look of something 
more than terror which had lent such grisly 
character to the face of the man I could still 
see hurrying through the street. 

I left her there and went to seek the tele- 
phone. It was in a small tobacconist's shop. 
The people at the exchange put me on at 

" Is that Scotland Yard ? " I asked. 
"Who is that npeaking? Put me on to 




Inspector Ellis. I am Judith Lee. I have 
an idea that I can put you on the track of the 
man you want for the shooting in Great Glenn 

There came along the wire a sound which 
was very like an ejaculation of surprise, even 
of incredulity. 

" Are you serious, Miss Lee ? Where are 
you speaking ? " 

" I want you to send half-a-dozen men in 
plain clothes, made up to look as little like 
policemen as they can manage, to the corner 
of Perrivale Street as soon as possible. Let 
them go singly and appear not to know each 
other when they get there. I fancy it's a 
ticklish job they'll have to handle. The 
great thing is not to arbuse suspicion till the 
thing is done. You had better come with 
them. How long will it be before you are 
there ? " 

" Til be there as soon as a taxicab can 
bring me." 

" Will you be there, say, in fifteen 
minutes ? " 

" Before that — probably in less than ten." 

When I came out of the telephone-box 
there were two women standing under a 
lamp-post on the edge of the pavement. I 
recognized one as the girl with a shawl over 
her head who had been outside Sam's talk- 
ing to the sallow man. The other was bare- 
headed, so that I could see her scanty grey 
hair and how her face was seamed with 
wrinkles. They were so absorbed in what 
they were saying that they did not notice 
me standing at the door of the telephone- 
box. They seemed to be in a state of almost 
hysterical agitation ; unless I erred, tears 
were in the voices as well as in the eyes of 
both. I looked at their lips, expecting to 
find that they were still speaking in that 
unknown tongue, and that, therefore, what 
they were saying was sealed from me. After 
watching them a moment, however, it struck 
me that, while they were not speaking in 
English, some of the words they uttered were 
not unfamiliar. 

A few months before the occurrences of 
which I am writing I had received an invita- 
tion from certain persons who were starting 
an institution for the education of deaf-mutes 
in the town of Posen, in the province of that 
name, in that part of Eastern Germany which 
is adjacent to Poland. I was invited for a 
month, but I stayed four. I had a fair 
knowledge of German before I went, but the 
variety of the language which was spoken in 
that part was new to me. Before, however, 
I came away it had become more familiar. 

Digitized by kjt 

I had only to watch the two women standing 
under the lamp-post closely for a few seconds 
to perceive that that was the tongue they 
were speaking. 

At first I merely catch a word here and 
there. Only by degrees did I obtain any- 
thing like a clear insight into what they were 
saying. When I did understand I lost words 
here and there, so that I had to guess at them, 
but I learnt sufficient to render me thankful 
that I had been able to learn so much. 

One of the first words I caught was 
" bomb " — which in German is " Bombe ." 
My interest in their conversation grew when 
I realized that the word was being formed on 
the younger woman's lips again and again, 
and the sense in which it was being used- 
She repeated the same statement two or 
three times. 

" I tell you he has got a bomb on a little 
table by his bed." 

" But why a bomb ? " the elder asked. 

" Because he will not be taken. I have a 
particular way of entering the room ; he 
would know in a second if it was anyone else 
who wished to enter. He says that if any- 
one tries to enter the room, someone who is 
not me, he will push the bomb over on to the 
iloor — and that will be the end of everything." 

" He must be mad to have a thing like that 
at his bedside. Suppose the table were to 
tumble over ? " 

" That would be the end ! I tell you I am 
afraid to go near it, to look at it. I would 
not touch it for all the money in the world. 
It is made of some sort of glass ; he says that 
if you hold it in your hand and squeeze, 
closing your fingers on it sharply, like that " 
— she demonstrated her meaning with her 
outstretched hand — " that would be enough. 
What I have suffered because of that thing ! " 

The girl covered her face with the edge of 
her shawl, as if to hide from herself the 
dreadful picture her imagination had conjured 
up. The tears were streaming down the old 
woman's wrinkled cheeks. 

" He must be mad," she wailed, " to have 
a th : ng like that beside his bed." 

" That is not the worst," continued the 
girl. " How can I tell you what I suffer 
when I return ? When I am going up the 
stairs my knees tremble so that I can scarcely 
mount them ; I tremble so that I can hardly 
think of the signal which tells him it is I. 
Consider what would happen if I made one 
little slip ; he would not wait to give me a 
chance to put it right — he has sworn it. 
That same moment the bomb would fall." 

The two women were reducing themselves 



almost to a state of nervous collapse by their 
own words. They both of them trembled 
and cried. 

"What is the signal which you give?'* 
asked the elder. 

L1 It begins when I enter the house. I give 

she sang, just above her breathy so that the 
air reached me, the chorus of '* Auld Lang 
Syne/' with the strangest accent. 

"It is an English song ; I do not know 
what it means. He sang it to me— you know 

how well he sings/' 


one whistle — like that/' She gave utterance 
to a clear , bird -like note, *' As I ascend the 
stairs I sing, something different nearly every- 
day, He is so afraid that someone will hear 
me and imitate that he makes me continually 
change. To-night it is to be a verse of an 
English song— like this/' 
As I stood on the step of the tdephoncl-box 


" He can still sing ? " There was 
anxious note in the elder woman's voire. 

" Yes, a little ; enough to make me under- 
stand* I do not ask him to explain ; I ropy 
him as nearly as I can ; for him that is 
sufficient, I sing this song as I am ascending, 
my knees shaking, my tongue dry in my 
mouth. Wh-dHan^^tihfe top, I 




what he calls the password loud enough for 
him to hear it on the other side ; to-night it 
is ' Gruss.' Then I knock on the door, three 
times ; first one tap, then two taps, then 
three taps ; then I go in, and I sigh with 
thankfulness because I am still alive. Then 
I see the bomb upon the table, and I am worse 
than ever, because the sight of it terrifies me 
more than I can tell you." 

" But there are other people in the house ; 
they cannot go through all this performance 
each time they go in or out ? " 

" That is where you are wrong ; there is 
no one else in the house ; except that one, 
all the rooms are empty — that has been 
arranged. See, I have here the street-door 
key ; with that I let myself in ; and — —" 

The elder woman interrupted her, without 
glancing in my direction; so that if I had 
not been observing her lips I should not have 
guessed that it was to me she referred. 

" Why does that woman stay so long upon 
the step ? You see how she is watching us ? " 

The younger answered not a word. With- 
out a look in my direction she glided away, 
up the street on my left ; while, without so 
much — so far as I could perceive — as a peep 
towards me, the elder went trudging past me 
on the right. 

Within a very few minutes I was at the 
corner of Perrivale Street. As I neared it a 
man came and accosted me. 

" Miss Lee ? I thought that you were not 
coming, that some hoax had been played. I 
am Mr. Ellis — you telephoned to me just 

" Where are the men I asked you to 
send ? " 

" They are about the street, separately. 
They will gather at a word from me. They 
are in charge of Inspector Davis, who is 
standing in front of that shop-window smoking 
a pipe." 

I noted the burly figure to which he referred. 
So far as I could judge, there was nothing to 
point to the presence of his six policemen. 
He went on : — 

" Where is this man of whom you spoke ? 
Are you sure that you are on his track, or 
is it merely surmise ? " 

" This is going to be a much more delicate 
business, Mr. Ellis, even than I supposed. 
The man who tries to arrest him will do so 
not only at the peril of his own life, but of the 
lives of others." 

" Do you mean that there will be more 
shooting ? We are prepared for that." 

" I do not mean that there will be more 

I told him of the conversation with which 
I had just been made acquainted. He heard 
me with growing amazement. 

" Do you mean to say that the fellow has 
a bomb with him in his room, which he will 
explode if anyone tries to take him? He 
will do for himself if he does. Where's the 
gain ? " 

" That I cannot tell you. These people 
seem to have their own ideas. He will not 
only do for himself and his would-be captor, 
or captors, but he'll work wholesale havoc in 
the neighbourhood. That is a consummation 
not to be desired." 

Mr. Ellis's manner suggested that he was 

" But, even if you are right, even if the 
fellow is such a hideous monster — because he 
is a hideous monster, is he to defy us, to 
escape us ? Are we not to take him ? What 
are we to do ? " 

" 111 tell you what we will do. I will take 

" You ! You will take him ! What do you 
mean by you will take him ? Do you imagine 
that we will allow you to do our work, to do 
what we dare not do, to run a risk which we 
should be afraid to take ? You are dreaming." 

" I am not dreaming. It is because I am 
very wide awake that I make the proposition. 
There will be not only risk in your case, there 
will be certainty. It would be absolutely 
certain that you would bring destruction 
upon innocent heads ; while, in my case, 
there will be practically no risk at all. Let 
me explain." 

He condescended to listen as I went scam- 
pering on. 

" This girl, from whom I learnt about the 
bomb, is the only person who is allowed to 
approach his room. You must remember 
that the house is empty. She is the only 
person he permits to enter. I propose tc 
pretend to be her." 

" Do you mean that you're going to make 
up to imitate her ? He would probabh 
detect you in an instant." 

" Not at all. I'm not going to try t< 
imitate her in appearance. Haven't I beei 
telling you about the elaborate series o 
signals by which she announces to him he 
coming, and how she described them in detai 
to the other woman ? They're what I'm goin; 
to imitate. I know them off by heart. Befor 
he's begun even to suspect that there's any 
thing wrong I shall be in his room." 

" There is, I am free to admit, a certai 
amount of sense in your suggestion. Th 
jejea of imitating the girl's signals is not bac! 




but if you try that we shall have to eater the 
house with you — some of us, at any rate ; 
and, keeping close at your heels, go into the 
room with you, and trust to luck to down him 
before he's reached his bomb. There are 
women in the force. I'll get one here. You 
can tell her about the signals, she can work 
them instead of you. It's her business — as 
I said, each to his job." 

" And don't you realize that by this time 
that girl has probably gone back to him, or 
may go back at any moment, and that then 
yoor chance is lost ? If anything is to be 
done, it must be done at once — now, and I 
will do it." 

" Where's the fellow to be found ? " 

" He's at 3, James Buildings, in a room on 
the third-floor front." 

" That's just round the corner, less than a 
minute from here. If you and I go on in 
front, my men will follow." 

He turned into a narrow side-street. 
There was not a soul in sight. A woman 
came out of a doorway on the left perhaps a 
dozen yards in front of us. I whispered to 
my companion : — 

" That's the girl — the one I saw talking 
about the bomb. She is probably going to 
him now ; if she gets to him first we are 

Mr. Ellis made a curious sound — I think 
he did it with his tongue between his teeth. 
The girl hurrying along in front stopped and 
looked round, as if to see from whom it came. 
Two men, appearing from what I take it was 
an alley on the right, were on her before she 
could move. Each had her by an arm. 

She never uttered a sound or attempted to 
struggle. When we got to her she seemed 
paralyzed with terror — trembling as if, with- 
out the support of her captors, she would 
have fallen. 

Mr. Ellis spoke. 

" You two had better look after her — take 
her to the station ; detain her till I come." 
He addressed the girl. " Do you speak 

" I have no English." It was with diffi- 
culty that she spoke. Then she saw me. 
" You ! " she exclaimed in German. " You 
were on the step." 

I said to Mr. Ellis :— 

" Can't I have her shawl ? It might enable 
me to carry the deception a little farther if 
I have it. He'll spot the trick at once if I 
enter the room with a hat and jacket on. 
Apparently she wears neither." 

They took her shawl. Removing my hat 
and jacket, entrusting them to the men who 

Digitized by G* 

had her in charge, I donned the shawl in their 
place. A notion seemed to dawn on her of 
what the proceeding meant. She began all 
at once to struggle violently, breaking into 
voluble speech. 

" Off with her," directed Mr. Ellis. " We 
don't want any fuss here." 

I sped on in front. After a second or two 
he joined me. 

" James Buildings is the next turning on 
the left," said Mr. Ellis. " You had better 
go on ahead. When you have got the door 
open we will follow — my men are all here. 
But for Heaven's sake run no more risk than 
you can help." 

His words were sounding in my ears as I 
stole down the narrow street. All the win- 
dows seemed to be in darkness ; there was 
not a creature to be seen. As I went a 
thought suddenly occurred to me — I had no 
key. The girl had spoken about gaining 
admission with a key. It seemed that the 
only thing to be done was to go back to her 
in search of it. 

As I decided that the only thing to be done 
was to return and tell Mr. Ellis of my stupidity 
I drew the shawl closer around me and — 
something struck me quite a smart blow over 
the breast as I swung the corner over. There 
was something concealed in the shawl. I 
felt for it ; something hard was tied in a 
knot in the corner. I unloosed it. It was 
a key — possibly the key I wanted. 
„ I hurried on with the key in my hand. 
Odd numbers were on one side of the street, 
even on the other. The door of No. 3 was 
in a shocking state. I could see how grimy 
the windows were, and how the blinds which 
veiled them were in keeping. There was not 
a glimmer at one of them. I was just about 
to insert the key into the lock when I thought 
of the whistle the girl had said she always 
gave before she did so. I am rather a good 
whistler ; but it was odd how, on a sudden, 
I had become doubtful of my capacity. With 
difficulty I produced the note. I had not 
intended it to be a loud one, yet it seemed to 
me that it must have been audible streets 
away. Then I put the key into the lock and 
opened the door. 

As I did so someone came up behind me. 
It was Mr. Ellis. I had seen him coming, 
but so noiselessly had he moved that I had 
heard nothing. Four other men came after 
him. We entered the hall — I first, Mr. Ellis 
and his four men after me. The moment my 
foot crossed the threshold I began to sing the 
chorus of " Auld Lang Syne." The girl's 

voice had been soprano ; hers had strucfc 

kJri y 1 n d r rro m 




mc as being very soft and sweet ; I felt that 
mine was shriller. I tried to pronounce the 
words as she had done, so that they seemed 
to an English ear to be so much gibberish. 
I do not know to what extent I succeeded in 
rendering it as she would have done ; I do 
know that singing that immortal chorus 
under such conditions had on me the most 

door immediately in front of us. As I paus 
my heart was beating so noisily that it seem 
to me it must be audible to whoever mi£ 
be within, 

I gritted my teeth as I knocked at the dc 
—one tap ; then knocked again — two tap 
another interval — three taps. Then I grasp 
the handle, turned it : opened the door, a 


singular effect. I wondered what effect the 
performance was producing upstairs. 

One of the constables had a dark lantern, 
by whose light we ascended the u near pe ted, 
rickety staircase. ' Two men remained below 
to keep an eye on the street ; Mr* Ellis and 
the two others went up with me. Not a 
word was spoken ; my singing was the only 
sound there was. I was through the chorus 
before we were up the second flight of stairs, 
so, in order to cover a possible stumble on the 
part of the men behind me. I started it again. 

We reached the third floor. There was a 

went into the room, with my heart in i 

The programme we had arranged was tt 
I was to enter the room alone, divert t 
attention of the man within, then give a ti 
whistle j and Mr, Ellis and his compank 
were to appear, and ensure his never reach! 
the bomb at all. 

When I opened the door it was to fi 
that there was darkness in the room* Tl 
was unlocked for. I had expected to find 
light of some sort, if only a candle or a larr 
It wasGfritfivw^amsation to enter a roc 




of which I knew nothing and could see 
nothing, with the consciousness strong upon 
me that it was occupied by a desperate, 
blood-stained wretch, who had that hideous 
weapon of destruction within reach of his 
fingers. No words of mine could describe 
my feelings. I did not know whether to 
move or to speak, or what to do. Any 
instant, in the darkness, before we knew 
what he was about to do, the bomb might be 
thrown — death would be on us. 

I longed for a light ; yet how was I to get 
one, ignorant as I was of the geography of the 
room and of what it contained ? I ventured 
to move, and struck against the back of a 
chair. He must have heard. I had a sudden 
feeling that the dreadful silence could not 
continue. I summoned up my knowledge of 
the sort of German the girl had spoken. 

" Where are you ? Why do you not speak 
to me ? Why are you hiding ? Why is it 
so dark ? " 

When I had put my four questions I had a 
fresh access of fright. Now I felt the bomb 
must come, but it did not. The silence 
continued, and on the instant I became 
conscious of a quality in the silence which 
made me behave as if I had lost my head. 
I broke into reiterated exclamation, throwing 
open the door. 

" Give me a light ! Give me a light ! Give 
me a light ! " 

The constable turned the shutter of his 
dark lantern, and allowed its light to travel 
round the room. 

" What's that," he asked, " upon the bed ? " 

The light was resting on what seemed to 
be a truckle bed, on which something was 
lying. It was a man, huddled up anyhow, 
partially dressed, amid some filthy, scanty 
bed-clothes. I thought for the moment he 
was dead. But as we looked he turned 
slowly over on to his side, and stretched a 
lean, brown hand towards an old deal table 
within a foot of his bedside, on which was a 
quantity of the sort of wool which they use 
for stuffing chairs. Resting on this was what 
looked like one of the gleaming glass balls 
which serve as decorations for Christmas-trees. 

It burst on me what it was. Ere his hand 
got there I snatched it up. As I did so he 
rolled off rather than rose from his bed, 
jerking towards me his ciaw-like fingers. I 
shrieked ; I had to. Mr. Ellis and his men 
rushed forward. Someone caught the man 
by the shoulder. The instant he was touched 
he collapsed on the floor — dead. So near he 
had been to dying when we came in. 

Later inspection by experts made it clear 
that the glass ball I had caught up was a bomb 
of a particularly diabolical sort. Had it teen 
exploded in that small room the whole of 
James Buildings might have been destroyed 
with their inhabitants. Death, however, 
removed its owner before he had been able 
to put his benevolent design into execu- 

The girl whose shawl I had annexed made a 
statement to the police, by which it appeared 
that the man's name was Stepan Grilovitch. 
His chiefly had been the hand which had 
dealt out death in Great Glenn Street. There 
the shooting had taken place in a darkened 
room. As, in the circumstances, was not 
surprising, a shot from one of his friends 
had struck him ; he had been conveyed to 
that upper room, where he had been in charge 
of the girl ever since. The wound had 
gangrened. A doctor might have prevented 
it ; on the other hand, a doctor would almost 
certainly have strtt him to the gallows. He 
preferred to die in another way instead. 
What became of his brother I do not know ; 
he has never crossed my orbit since. Nor, 
thank goodness, have I seen anything more 
of the man with the ginger hair. 

I shall never forget mounting that rickety 
staircase, singing " Auld Lang Syne " ; or 
those awful moments in the pitch-black 

It was only afterwards I remembered that 
when I reached the top of the staircase, before 
tapping at the door, I had omitted to give 
what the girl said Stepan Grilovitch called 
the password : " Gruss ! " What a shudder 
went all over me in the first shock of recol- 
lection ! Sometimes that shudder comes over 
me still* 

by Google 

Original from 




The Art of Judith Lee. 

Director of the Association for the Oral Instruction of the Deaf and Dumb. 

Photographs by F* C, Hods&U. 

EADERS of Mr, Richard 
Marsh's fascinating stories 
describing the adventures 
of Judith Lee, which have 
been appearing in the pages 
of The Strand Magazine 
since August last ; have no 
doubt been asking themselves and their 
friends whether her power of lip-reading the 
conversation of strangers comes within the 
range of possibility. " Can the power to 
Kp-read/' it will have been asked , " rise to 
such a degree of accuracy and reliability as 
virtually to constitute a sixth sense, the sense 
of seeing spoken words ? J> I can well 
imagine some of the readers of the stories, 
and especially those who may have been 
exchanging confidences in a crowded room or 
a public conveyance > exclaiming, ib How 
dreadful it would be to meet a person gifted 
in that way ! " On the other hand, there 
have doubtless been many whose thoughts 
have been directed to the beneficent nature 
of such a power. To all, whether young 
or old, who are unfortunate enough to be 
deprived of the sense of hearing, the power 
to set speech is an untold blessing. 

Let me say at once that it is quite possible 
to read the speech of a person at a distance 
beyond the range of the ordinary conversa- 
tional tones t merely by seeing the movements 
of the lips and facial muscles of the speaker, 

— Digitized by Google 

Judith Lee is, of course, a fictitious character, 
and one must be prepared to accept her as a 
person of exceptional ability, and, if need be, 
grant her the possession of the art of lip- 
reading to a degree beyond the range of 
attainment of the ordinary individual. In 
her case, as she tells us in the first of the 
stories, practice has brought perfection ; and 
who would care to set a limit to the achieve- 
ments of a perfected exponent of this art ? 
In order to have brought home to one the 
immense possibilities of human achievement, 
one has only to recall the remarkable instance 
of Helen Keller 7 the American authoress^ who, 
though both blind and deaf, is yet able to 
carry on an oral conversation with her friends, 
lip-reading the words addressed to her by 
simply placing her hand on the speaker's 
face in such a manner as to feel the move- 
ments of the lips and jaw, 

I am personally acquainted with many 
deaf people who can lip-read with case and 
certainty a conversation directly addressed 
to them ; and there are many hearing people 
who possess a similar pow f er in varying 
degrees. It may be remarked, however, that 
it does not follow, as might be supposed , that 
all who can teach the art successfully can 
themselves practise it to any useful extent. 
One of the few persons known to me w r ho has 
this dual ability is a lady whose hearing 
became impaired in early childhood, and whp 




cannot remember the time when she had not 
to depend to some extent on lip-reading in 
order to understand what was said to her. 
The following is one of the many incidents 
she relates, as happening when she was a 
child. She was being taken by a relation 
to see some intimate friends, and as they 
approached the house, which faced the road 
along which they were walking, someone 
appeared at the drawing-room window and, 
speaking to another occupant, said : — 

" Open the door, Annie ; here are May 
and Edith ; but Willie is not with them." 

The child turned to her relation and said : — 

" Don't ring ; Annie is coming to open the 

" How do you know ? " was asked. 

" Oh, I heard Mrs. say so." 

" What ! heard her across the road and 
through the closed window ? " 

In those days this youthful lip-reader had 
no name for her gift of seeing speech ; all 
she knew was that she could not hear well 
unless she had a view of the speaker's face. 
She was often scolded for supposed inatten- 
tion and a habit of " dreaming," though, as 
a matter of fact, she was always keen to hear ; 
but whenever she was unable to see the lips 
of the person speaking she found it impossible 
to gather what was being said, and conse- 
quently occupied herself with her own 
thoughts, or turned her attention to other 
things. Her excuse, that she could not hear, 
was invariably met with the rejoinder, " You 
are a naughty, inattentive little girl, and can 
hear perfectly well if you choose." 

Both my wife and I have some facility 
in the art, and we often find it a great con- 
venience, especially on occasions when, as in 
a crowded room or at a railway station, we 
are unable to get near enough to each other 
to carry on an ordinary oral conversation. 
A short time ago I was seeing her off at a 
London terminus by a very crowded train, 
and, as is usually the case, the doors of the 
carriages were surrounded with people. She, 
however, took up a position at one of the 
windows of the carriage in which she had 
obtained a seat, whilst I stood outside on the 
platform, and we continued our conversation 
uninterruptedly until the train moved off. 
This facility in speech - reading, as the 
Americans prefer to call it, again proved 
useful on a more recent occasion, when I was 
addressing a meeting in a provincial town. 
A friend travelled down from London rather 
late in the day, and arrived at the hall after 
I had taken my place on the platform and the 
chainpan had opened the proceedings. He 

thereupon took a seat near the back of the 
room and, catching my glance of recognition, 
asked, by lip-movements : — 

" Anybody special here ? " 

I answered, " Yes, Sir H H . He 

wants to see you. Has to go early. He's in 
the back row." 

I was detained at the close of the meeting ; 
but, thanks to the voiceless message I had 
sent over the heads of the assembled company, 
my friend was enabled to obtain an interview 
which led to important results, and which, but 
for the lip-reading, would not have taken place. 

Here are one or two incidents related to me 
by a Training College lecturer who possesses 
the gift to an uncommon degree. Her classes 
often numbered as many as a hundred 
students, and not infrequently her facility 
in lip-reading sotto voce remarks proved both 
helpful in maintaining discipline and in 
removing a difficulty which a timid student 
lacked the courage to voice. 

On one occasion the lesson was about to 
begin, but before actually starting she paused 
until all eyes were looking her way. There 
were two girls, however, seemingly oblivious 
to everything but their own conversation. 
She watched them for a moment. The rest 
of the class, noticing that her gaze was fixed 
on the two talkers at the back of the room, 
watched events with repressed amusement. 
Finally the conversation was interrupted by 
the lecturer observing : — 

" Yes, I think the pink dress will be a 
dream, but I should not advise you to have 
the tiny blue trimming, though it is the 
sweetest thing you have ever seen." 

The general titter which went round com- 
pleted the discomfiture of the culprits. 

Another time the students were assembling 
rather noisily, and seemed in no great hurry 
to settle down. The lecturer was meanwhile 
occupying herself by arranging her material 
on the platform. On looking up she saw one 
student remark to another : — 

" I say, she doesn't look very amiable this 
morning ! " 

" No, Miss Z " (the remark came forth 

in severe tones), " and she will look still less 
amiable unless you settle down quickly and 
quietly to work." 

There was, as may be expected, immediate 

Another typical instance of the lecturer's 
power to lip-read may be mentioned. A 
geometry lesson was in progress. After 
having explained a rather intricate problem, 
one of the students was seen to remark to 
a neighbour ;rfqir 




' Yes, it's all very well ; but I don ? t see 
how she makes it out," 

Whereupon the teacher announced thai, 
for the benefit of the student in the fourth 
row who hadn't followed her reasoning, she 
would go over the problem again , and the 
second explanation made things clear to 

At social gatherings one often sees little 
confidences meant only for the private 
delectation of a favoured one. The following 
little episode was related to me by one who 
witnessed it. The scene was a ballroom, and 
the lady who tells the story was sitting out 
one of the dances. Her glance was wander- 
ing more or less aimlessly around the room 7 
when she noticed a couple apparently talking 
quite openly* There was nothing in their 

while others, again, arc lip-read with diffi- 
culty. I am now referring to the lip-reading 
of conversations as carried on between two 
hearing and speaking people, conversations 
solelv addressed to the ear, and not to tho^e 
carried on with the knowledge that the words 
which are spoken are being followed with the 
eye, as is the case when an orally-educated 
il deaf and dumb ,T person is addressed. 

Speech is ordinarily intended for the ear, 
and it satisfies all' essential aural require- 
ments if the sounds of. the voice are suffi- 
ciently distinct for the spoken words to be 
heard" without any strain on the part of the 
person who is addressed. But whilst the 
words which are uttered may be heard 
clearly enough, the movements of the articu- 
lating organs, visible to the eye, may be in- 

attitude to suggest that they were discussing 
matters of a private nature, for they were 
seated in the full glare of the lights — not the 
kind of place in which one would expect to 
surprise an enamoured youth making a pro- 

Some people, however, have a way of 
making the most of their opportunities, and 
of profiting by any occasion which offers 
itself. The man had e% T idently asked a very 
important question, judging by what followed, 
though the immediate answer had already 
been given. The girl was seen to remark : — 

"If you ask mother I won't speak to you 

"Then you don't love me? " said the man. 

" I think you don't understand/' was the 

re P ] >'* ... + 

At this point the witness of the little -scene 

turned away, as it was evident that the con- 
versation was a strictly confidential one. 

It will very naturally be asked whether 
everybodv's lips can be read, and the answer 
is that there are many people whom, for one 
reason or another, it is impossible to lip-read, 

sufficient of themselves to enable a lip-reader 
to differentiate those for one sound or syllable 
or word from those for another. The explana- 
tion of this is that the conditions w-hich must 
be satisfied for the production of good vowel 
tones } considered acoustically, are not in all 
respects identical with those conditions which 
must be observed in the formation of the same 
vowels for lip-reading 

In reading the vowels on the lips, it is the 
shape of the orifice of the mouth which 
symbolizes the vowel Each vow r el is, of 
course, best pronounced, cither for aural or 
visual purposes, when the internal conforma- 
tion of the mouth and the position of the 
lips are what they should be ; but for lip- 
reading purposes alone it is the lip positions 
more than anything else that count, This 
explains why whispered speech may be as easy 
<o read as voiced speech ; and also why so mo 
people whose pronunciation is good are yet 
extremely difficult, or even impossible, to 
lip-read. They give no play to the muscles 
of their lips and -cheeks, scarcely opening 
their moutlQr^iiiBljfwWhat is quite as bad ? 





*i t\m d " 

they speak behind a screen of ivory formed 
by their shut teeth. Without attempting any 
further explanation, it will, I think, be quite 
evident that a speaker is more likely to be 
successfully lip-read if he speaks with the 
knowledge that he is addressing his words 
to the eye and not to the ear. 

To lip-read a word the mind has to spell 
out the phonetic elements which go to form 
its pronunciation. 

Take, for example, the words " bus/ 1 
"golf," and "three/' which are illustrated 
on these pages by means of photographs of a 
teacher at the Fitzroy Square Oral School 
for Deaf Children, showing the positions 
assumed by the lips in the utterance of the 
respective constituent elements. The word 
" bus M is composed of three simple sounds 
represented by the letters tku-s, and in order 
to lip-read the word the mind must interpret 
the movements of the articulating organs and 
the positions they assume in the formation 
of the sounds. The eye sees first a shut 
position of th& lips (h), then a medium open 
position (u), followed by a teeth to teeth 
position (s). The movement of the point of 
the tongue to the upper front teeth in the 
formation of f< s " may or may not be noted. 

For the word u golf " the series of organic 
movements are: First, 
back of tongue to 
palate, and also an 
upward throat move- 
ment (g) ; second, a 
wide oval formation 
of the lips (o) ; third, 
a tip of tongue to gum 
movement (l)j and, 
finally, fourth, lower 
lip to upper teeth 


The movements for 
initial <V; <ot"10 
arc inconspicuous, and 
Yol Klui,— % 

the sound has usually to be inferred from 
the context* 

For the word " three " the movements 
and positions are: First, tongue to teeth, tip 
visible (th) ; second, a slight puckering of 
the corners of the lips and an upward move- 
ment of the tip of the tongue (r) ; and, third, 
B teeth to teeth position, with retracted 
movement of narrowed lips. 

Lip- reading is thus seen to be based upon the 
assumption that the positions of the organs 
of speech in pronouncing each of the phonetic 
elements are typical positions, sufficiently 
constant in their character to form a phonetic 
alphabet of lip or facial signs, which may be 
read very much in the same way that one 
reads the printed words on the page of a book. 

The nearest thing to which 1 can compare 
reading the lips is reading shorthand. Each 
exercise consists in deciphering signs of sounds, 
phonetic characters ; but with this difference, 
that in the former case the characters are 
transitory, whereas in the latter case they are 
stationary. There is another respect, too, 
in which systems of lip-reading and steno- 
graphy bear some resemblance to one 
another. In stenography use is made of 
what are called contractions — a contraction 
being essentially a combination of the chief 


BEINt: r 




**■ itce " 


of the series of characters which represent 
the sounds composing a word or phrase. 
Now, in lip-reading it is not necessary to 
see the position for every one of the component 
elements in a word, nor even of every syllable 
or word m a phrase or sentence. The reading 
of the more conspicuous elements or syllables 
suffices for the reading of the whole, the less 
evident positions denoting intermediate parts 
being neglected* 

In this way great economy of effort is 
effected, reducing the physical strain of 
seeing* On the other hand, the mental 
exercise is all the greater, for the mind has 
to fill in the spaces and grasp the full meaning 
of the partially-seen expression. For ex- 
ample^ to the practised eye the series of 
vowel positions " ow-oo-oo-oo " would at 
once he interpreted as " How do you do ? 5J 
and tl The St-an Ma-e-zeen " would be read 
as " The Strand Magazine." 

Let us refer for a moment to the third of 
the Judith Lee stories. In reading " White 
dress, star in her hair, pink roses over left 
breast. To-nigh t" Judith Lee would have 
seen the mouth movements of something like 
the following sequence of phonetics : " Whiet- 
ess-ta(h) in u{r) ai-u p-ng-oses*" (Read 
without a pause.) When one has some clue 


s n:\kiyg th 

to the subject of con- 
versation the difficulty 
of lip-reading such a 
sentence is not so great 
as would he imagined. 
It will be apparent 
that successful lip- 
reading demands a 
high degree of mental 
alertness as well as a 
full and ready com- 
mand of language, in 
order that unseen 
words may be filled in 
from the context, or 
alternative words inserted in a sentence when 
the positions read offer a choice of interpreta- 
tion. Many words differing in both spelling 
and meaning look exactly alike when seen on 
the lips in ordinary conversation. Therefore, 
in deciding which of any two or three words 
is meant, the mind must select quickly unless 
the lip-reader is to be left behind in the con- 
versation, or the conversation itself checked 
to clear away the difficulty. The words 
path and bath ; pen 7 men, Btn y bet 7 pet; mat* 
pat, nutn f pan ; me t pea, bee f are a few 
examples, selected at random, of groups of 
simple words of this kind. The sentence : 
" I met a man on the Ben this morning/ 1 
might easily be read as/' I bet a pan on the 
men this morning/ * though the circumstances 
under which the statement would probably 
be made, and the previous conversation t 
would prevent a moderately good lip-reader 
from falling into error, 

It will he obvious, too, that successful lip- 
reading is affected by the degree of light on 
the speaker's face> or by the view obtainable 
of the face. A full view is best as a rule, 
though I have known cases where a three- 
quarter view presented advantages. A side 
face is difficult to read— indeed, usually impos- 
sible, except for well-known words and phrases. 

The need for a good 
light on the face of 
the speaker is well 
illustrated by the fol- 
lowing story, A friend 
of mine, whose hear- 
ing is never good ? and 
who in some states 
of the weather is very 
deaf indeed, has such 
natural powers of lip- 
reading that many of 
her friends refuse to 
believe that her hear- 
Riivii. ilfroifeg is ever at fault, 




One winter's afternoon she called with her 

sister on a Mrs. L 7 who, besides having 

weak sight, was also somewhat deaf. The 
lamps had not yet been lighted and the 
drawing-room was in semi-darkness. Mrs, 
L f who was always very bright and cheer- 
ful, with a fund of amusing anecdotes on 
which to draw for the entertainment of her 
visitors , on this occasion seemed somewhat 
less cheerful than usual Presently she began 
to speak about her sight, which had lately 
become very much worse , and said that the 
doctors had told her she would in a few 
months become quite blind, My friend could 
scarcely hear a word of what was being told 
her and could see very little of the expression 
on the lady's face, for to make matters worse 
the latter was sitting with her back to the 

years of age. Although they at present know 
the written names of very few of their toys, 
they can pick out any one of the thirty odd 
objects in their toy-box at the oral direction 
of their teacher, A child will be told to fetch 
a doll, get the bath and soap, wash the doll, 
and dry it, and each action is performed as 
readily as though the child could hear. 

It would be difficult to over-estimate the 
value of this speech and lip-reading which these 
little children learn, thanks to those generous 
people who by their subscript ion s enable the 
association to carry on its good work. 

As an M aid " to hearing for those who have 
become deaf in adult life lip-reading is 
superior to any of the mechanical or electrical 
devices now on the market, good as some of 
these are for certain forms of deafness. The 



windows. But taking it for granted that she 
was " hearing " the usual bright talk, she 
punctuated every period with a " How nice ! " 
" Oh* yes, that is amusing ! " Her sister, 
sitting a little way off and realizing what was 
happening, tried to attract her attention, 
but failed to do so for some time. At last, 
seeing her hostess puzzled and surprised, 
she came to the rescue and explained the 
situation. The old lady now thoroughly 
believes in my friend's deafness ; whilst my 
friend learned a lesson which she has never 

The value of lip-reading to those who have 
the misfortune to be born deaf or to lose their 
hearing is inestimable. Deaf children are 
now happily taught to speak and to lip-read, 
pjid are thus brought into normal relations 
with the hearing and speaking world. One of 
the most interesting lessons to be witnessed 
at the Oral School for Deaf Children, at 11, 
Fitzroy Square, London , is the synthetic 
lip-reading lesson of the Kindergarten class, 
consisting of little children oi frpni fpyr to six 

lip-reading instruction which is provided at 
the Fitzroy Square College has been taken 
advantage of by large numbers of deaf people^ 
but many more would no doubt avail them- 
selves of the facilities provided were they 
aware of them, and could they be brought to 
realize how serviceable a knowledge of lip- 
reading would be to them, 

In conclusion, let me point out another 
instance in which a knowledge of lip-reading 
gives its possessor an enormous advantage, 
and enables him to add immensely to the 
enjoyment of some of his leisure time. There 
are probably few of us nowadays who do not 
spend an hour or two occasionally in a cine- 
matograph theatre, watching the humour 
and pathos of life as depicted in dumb show 
on the screen. The actors in these dramas 
arc? so skilled in the art of gesture that the 
story is usually followed with a fair amount of 
ease; but think how much more interesting 
and realistic the story is to one who is able 
to follow even onlv a part of the dialogue by 

mea ^feff d ^'MICHIGAN 

The Goal-keeper 

and the Plutocrat. 


Illustrated by Josepk Simpson, R.B.A. 

HE main difficulty in writing 
a story is to convey to the 
reader clearly yet tersely 
the natures and dispositions 
of one's leading characters. 
Brevity, brevity — that is the 
cry. Perhaps, after all, the 
play-bill style is the best. In this drama of 
love, football (Association code), and politics, 
then, the principals are as follows, in their 
order of entry : — 

Isabel Rackstraw (an angel). 

The Hon. Clarence Tresillian (a Greek 

Lady Runnymede (a proud old aristocrat). 

Mr. Rackstraw (a multi-millionaire City 
man and Radical politician). 

More about Clarence later. For the moment 
let him go as a Gj^ek god. There were other 
sides, too, to Mr. Rackstraw's character, but 
for the moment let him go as a multi-million- 
aire City man and Radical politician. Not 
that it is satisfactory ; it is too mild. The 
Radical politics of other Radical politicians 
were as skim-milk to the Radical politics of 
Radical Politician Rackstraw. Where Mr. 
Lloyd George referred to the House of Lords 
as blithering backwoodsmen and asinine 
anachronisms, Mr. Rackstraw scorned to be 
so guarded in his speech. He did not mince 
his words. His attitude towards a member 
of the peerage was that of. the terrier to the 
perambulating cat. 

It was at a charity bazaar that Isabel and 
Clarence first met. Isabel was presiding over 
the Billiken, Teddy-bear, and Fancy Goods 
stall. There she stood, that slim, radiant 
girl, buncoing Ardent Youth out of its father's 
hard-earned with a smile that alone was nearly 
worth the money, when she observed, ap- 
proaching, the handsomest man she had ever 
seen. It was — this is not one of those 
mystery stories — it was Clarence Tresillian. 
Over the heads of the bevy of gilded youths 
who clustered round the stall their eyes met. 
A thrill ran through Isabel. She dropped 
her eyes. The next moment Clarence had 

made his spring ; the gilded youths had 
shredded away like a mist, and he was leaning 
towards her, opening negotiations for the 
purchase of a yellow Teddy-bear at sixteen 
times its face value. 

He returned at intervals during the after- 
noon. Over the second Teddy-bear they 
became friendly, over the third intimate. 
He proposed as she was wrapping up the 
fourth golliwog, and she gave him her heart 
and the parcel simultaneously. At six 
o'clock, carrying four Teddy-bears, seven 
photograph frames, five golliwogs, and a 
billiken, Clarence went home to tell the news 
to his parents. 

Clarence, when not at the University, lived 
with his father and mother in Belgrave 
Square. His mother had been a Miss Trotter, 
of Chicago, and it was on her dowry that the 
Runnymedes contrived to make both ends 
meet. For a noble family they were in some- 
what straitened circumstances financially. 
They lived, simply and without envy of 
their richer fellow-citizens, on their hundred 
thousand pounds a year. They asked no more. 
It enabled them to entertain on a modest scale. 
Clarence had been able to go to Oxford ; his 
elder brother, Lord Staines, into the Guards. 
The girls could buy an occasional new frock. 
On the whole, they were a thoroughly happy, 
contented English family of the best sort, 
Mr. Trotter, it is true, was something of a 
drawback. He was a rugged old tainted 
millionaire of the old school, with a fondness 
for shirt-sleeves and a tendency to give 
undue publicity to tooth-picks. But he had 
been made to understand at an early date 
that the dead-line for him was the farther 
shore of the Atlantic Ocean, and he now 
gave little trouble. 

Having dressed for dinner, Clarence pro- 
ceeded to the library, where he found his 
mother in hysterics and his father in a state 
of collapse on the sofa. Clarence was too 
well-bred to make any comment. A true 
Runnymede, he affected to notice nothing, 
and, picking up the evening paper, began to 






read. The announcement of his engagement 
could be postponed to a more suitable time* 

" Clarence ! " whispered a voice from the 

" Yes, father ? » 

The silver-haired old man gasped for 

** I've lost my little veto/' he said, brokenly, 
at length. 

" Where did you see it last ? " asked 
Clarence , ever practical, 

" It's that fellow Rackstraw I " cried the 
old man , in feeble rage. " That bounder 
Rackstraw ! He J s the man behind it all. 
The robber ! " 

" Clarence ! " 

%% wfrs his mother who spokcOOQi^ 6 

seemed to rip the air into a million shreds 
and stamp on them. There are few things 
more terrible than a Chicago voice raised in 
excitement or anguish. 

" Mother ! " 

61 Never mind your pop and his old veto. 
He didn't know he had one till the paper said 
he'd lost it. You listen to me. Clarence, we 
are ruined.'* 

Clarence looked at her inquiringly, 

M Ruined much ? " he asked. 

11 Bed-rock," said his mother. " If we 
have sixty thousand dollars a year after this, 
it's all we shall have." 

A low howl escaped from the stricken old 
marjo n ihe«£L ini | from 



"Ah," he said, calmly. "How did it 
happen ? " 

" Fve just had a cable from Chicago, from 
your grand-pop. He's been trying to corner 
wheat. He always was an impulsive old 
gazook." j 

" But surely," said Clarence, a* dim recol- 
lection of something he had heard or read 
somewhere coming to him, " isn't cornering 
wheat a rather profitable process ? " 

" Sure," said his mother. " Sure it is. 
I guess dad's try at cornering wheat was about 
the most profitable thing that ever happened 
— to the other fellows/ It seems like they got 
busy and clubbed fifty-seven varieties of 
Hades out of your old grand-pop. He's got 
to give up a lot of his expensive habits, and 
one of them is sending money to us. That's 
how it is." 

" And on top of that, mind you," moaned 
Lord Runnymede,," I lose my little veto. 
It's bitter— bitter." 

Clarence lit a cigarette and drew at it 
thoughtfully. " I don't see how we're going 
to manage on twelve thousand quid a year," 
he said. 

His mother crisply revised his pronouns. 

" We aren't," she said. " You've got to 
get out and hustle." 

Clarence looked at her blankly. 

" Me ? " 
' "You." 

" Work ? " 

" Work." 

Clarence drew & deep breath. 

" Work ? Well, of course, mind you, 
fellows do work," he went on, thoughtfully. 
" I was lunching with a man at the Bachelors' 
only yesterday who swore he knew a fellow 
who had met a man whose cousin worked. 
But I don't see what I could do, don't you 

His father raised himself on the sofa. 

" Haven't I given you the education of an 
English gentleman ? " 

" That's the difficulty," said Clarence. 

" Can't you do anything ? " asked his 

"Well, I can play footer. By Jove, I'll 
sign on as a pro. I'll take a raw name. I'll 
call myself Jones. I can get signed on in a 
minute. Any club will jump at me." 

This was no idle boast. Since early child- 
hood Clarence had concentrated his energies 
on becoming a footballer, and was now an 
exceedingly fine goal-keeper. It was a 
pleasing sight to see him, poised on one foot 
in the attitude of a Salome dancer, with one 
eye on the man with the ball, the other gazing 

coldly on the rest of the opposition forward- 
line, uncurl abruptly like the main-spring 
of a watch and stop a hot one. Clarence 
in goal was the nearest approach to an 
indiarubber acrobat and society contortionist 
to be seen off the music-hall stage. He was, 
in brief, hot stuff. He had the goods. 

Scarcely had he uttered these momentous 
words when the butler entered with the 
announcement that he was wanted by a 
lady on the telephone. 

It was Isabel, disturbed apd tearful. 

" Oh, Clarence," she' cried, " my precious 
angel wonder-child, I don't know how to 

" Begin just like that," said Clarence, 
approvingly. " It's topping. You can ? t*beat 

" Clarence, a terrible thing has happened. 
I told papa of our engagement, and he 
wouldn't hear of it. He c-called you a 

P-P'P " 

" A what ? " 
A pr-pr-pr- 

" He's wrong. I'm nothing of the sort. 
He must be thinking of someone else." 

" A preposterous excrescence on the social 
cosmos. He doesn't like your father being 
an earl." 

" A man may be an earl and still a gentle- 
man," said Clarence, not without a touch of 
coldness in his voice. 

" I forgot to tell him that. But I don't 
think it would make any difference. He 
says I shall only marry a man who works." 

" I am going to work, dearest," said 
Clarence. " I am going to work like a horse. 
Something — I know not what — tells me I 
shall be rather good at work. And one day 
when I—" 

" Good-bye," said Isabel, hastily. " I hear 
papa coming." 

Clarence, as he had predicted, found no 
difficulty in obtaining employment. He was 
signed on at once, under the name of Jones, 
by Houndsditch Wednesday, the premier 
metropolitan club, and embarked at once on 
his new career. 

The season during which Clarence Tresillian 
kept goal for Houndsditch Wednesday is 
destined to live long in the memory of 
followers of professional football. Probably 
never in the history of the game has there 
been such persistent and widespread mor- 
tality among the more distant relatives of 
office-boys and junior clerks. Statisticians 
have estimated that if all the grandmothers 
alone who perished between the mQntfr$ Qf 





September and April that season could have 
been placed end to end, they would have 
reached from Hyde Park Corner to the 
outskirts of Manchester, And it was Clarence 
who was responsible for this holocaust. 
Previous to the opening of the season sceptics 
had shalJen their heads over the Wednesday's 
chances in the First League. Other clubs 
had bought up the best men in the market, 
leasing only a mixed assortment of inferior 
Scotsmen, Irishmen, and North-countrymen 
to uphold the honour of the London club* 

And then, like a meteor, Clarence Tresillian 
had flashed upon the world of football. In 
the opening game he had behaved in the 
goal-mouth like a Chinese cracker, and 
exhibited an absolutely impassable defence ; 
and from then on ward , except for an occa- 
sional check, Houndsditch Wednesday had 
never looked back. 

Among the spectators who flocked to the 
Houndsditch ground to watch Clarence 
perform there, appeared week after week a 
little grey, dried-uu man. 'insignificant except 



for a certain 
happy choice of 
language i n 
moments of 
emotion and an 
enthusiasm far 
surpassing that 
of the ordinary 
spectator. To the 
trained eye there 
are subtle dis- 
tinct i o n s be- 
tween football 
enthusiasts. This 
man belonged to 
the compara- 
tively .small class 
of those who 
have football on 
the cerebrum. 

Fate had 
made Daniel 
Rack st raw a 
millionaire and a 
Radical j but at 
heart he was a 
spectatorof foot- 
ball. He never 
missed a match. 
His library of 
football litera- 
ture was the 
finestin the coun- 
try. His football 
museum had but 
one equal, that 
of Mr. Jacob 
Dodson, of Man- 
chester, Between 

them the two had cornered , at enormous 
expense 7 the curio market of the game. It 
was Rack straw who had secured the authentic 
pair of boots in which Bloomer had first played 
for England ; but it was Dodson who pos- 
sessed the painted indiaruhber ball used by 
Meredith when a boy—probably the first 
thing except a nurse ever kicked by that 
talented foot. The two men were friends, as 
far as rival connoisseurs can be friends ; and 
Mr. Dodsonj when at leisure, would frequently 
pay a visit to Mr. Raekstraw's country house, 
where he would spend hours gazing wistfullv 
at the Bloomer boots, buoyed up only by the 
thought of the Meredith ball at home. 

Isabel saw little of Clarence during the 
winter months, except from a distance. She 
contented herself with clipping photographs 
of him from the sporting papers. Each was 
^ little more \inlike him than the last, and this 



lent variety to 
the collection. 
Her father 
marked her new- 
born enthusiasm 
for the game 
with approval. 
It had been 
secretly a great 
grief to the old 
gentleman that 
his only child 
did not know the 
difference be- 
tween a linesman 
and an inside 
right, and, 
more, did not 
seem to care to 
know. He felt 
himself drawn 
closer -to her. An 
as pleasant as 
it was new and 
strange, began 
to spring up 
between parent 
and child. 

As for Clar- 
ence ? how easy 
it would be to 
haul up one*s 
slacks to prac- 
tically an un- 
limited extent 
on the subject 
of his emotions 
at this time. One 
can figure him, after the game is over and the 
gay throng has dispersed, creeping moodily 
but what's the use ? Brevity — that is the 
cry, Brevity. Let us on. 

The months sped by; the Cup-ties began, 
and soon it was evident that the Final must 
be fought out between Houndsditch Wednes- 
day and Mr + Jacob Dod son's pet team, 
Manchester United, With each match the 
Wednesday seemed to improve, Clarence 
was a Gibraltar among goal -keepers* 

Those were delirious days for Daniel Rack- 
straw. Long before the fourth round his 
voice had dwindled to a husky whisper. 
Deep lines appeared on his forehcacf ; for it 
is an awful thing for a football enthusiast to 
be compelled to applaud, in the very middle 
of the Cup- tics, purely by means of facial 
expression, lp- this, 4Jmc of affliction he 
found IsaberaiT WeMncrcasinpr comfort to 





him. Side by side they would sit, and the 
old man's face would lose its drawn look, and 
light up, as her clear young soprano pealed 
out over the din, urging this player to shoot, 
that to kick some opponent in the face ■ or 
describing the referee in no uncertain terms 
as a reincarnation of the late Mr. Dick Turpi n, 
And now the day of the Final at the Crystal 
Palace approached, and all England was alert, 
confident of a record-breaking contest But 
aJas ! How truly docs Epictetus observe : 
" U"c know not what awaitelh us round the 
corner, and the hand that counteth its 
chickens ere they be hatched oft-times doth 
but step on the banana- skin/' The prophets 
who anticipated a struggle keener than any 
in football history were destined to be proved 

It was not that their judgment of form was 
at fault. On the run of the season's play 
Hound sditch Wednesday v. Manchester 
United should have been the two most evenly- 
maiched teams in the history of the game. 
Forward, the latter held a slight superiority ; 
but this was balanced by the inspired goal- 
keeping of Clarence Tresillian. Even the 
keenest supporters of either side were not 
confident. They argued at length, figuring 
out the odds with the aid of stubs of pencils 
and the backs of envelopes t but they were not 
confident. Out of all those frenzied millions 
two men alone had 
no doubts. Mr. 
Daniel Rackstraw 
said that he did 
not desire to be 
unfair to Manches- 
ter United. He 
wished it to be 
clearly understood 
that in their own 
class Manchester 
United might quite 
possibly show to 
consid e rable ad van - 
Uge. In some rural 
league, for instance, 
he did not deny that 
they might sweep 
all before them. But 
when it came to 
competing with 
Houndsditch Wed- 
nesday — here 
w^ords failed Mr. 

Mr. Jacob Dod- 
son, interviewed by 
the Manchester 

Weekly Football - Boot, stated that his 
decision, arrived at after a close and cartful 
study of the work of both teams, was that 
Hound sditch Wednesday had rather less 
chance in the forthcoming tourney than a 
stuffed rat in the Battersea Dogs' Home. 
It was his carefully-considered opinion that 
in a contest with the second eleven of a village 
Church Lads 1 Brigade Hound sditch Wednes- 
day might, with an effort (conceding them that 
slice of luck which so often turns the tide of a 
game), scrape home. But when it was a 
question of meeting a team like Manchester 
United— here Mr. Dodson, shrugging his 
shoulders despairingly, sank back in his chair, 
and watchful secretaries brought him round 
with oxygen. 

Throughout the whole country nothing but 
the approaching match was discussed. 
Wherever civilization reigned, and in portions 
of Liverpool, one question alone was on every 
lip : Who would win ? Ortogenarians 
mumbled it. Infants lisped it* Tired city 
men. trampled under foot in the rush for 
their tram, asked it of the ambulance attend- 
ants who carried them to the hospital 

And then, one bright, clear morning, when 
the birds sang and all Nature seemed fair and 
gay, Clarence Tresillian developed mumps, 

London was in a ferment. I could have 
wished to go into details, to describe in crisp, 

burning sentences 
the panic that 
swept like a tornado 
through a million 
homes. A little en- 
couragement, the 
slightest softening 
of the editorial 
austerity j and the 
thing would have 
been done. But no. 
Brevity, That was 
the cry. Brevity, 
Let us on, 

Wednesday met 
Manchester United 
at the Crystal 
Pa lace , and for 
nearly two hours 
the sweat of agony 
d wn t he c orruga te d 
foreheads of * the 
patriots in the 
stands, The men 


fro i"fr om Manchester, 

B\mn5mwh\<*mfrti om the fear 



of Clarence, smiled grim smiles and proceeded 
to pile up points. It was in vain that the 
Houndsditch backs and half-backs skimmed 
like swallows about the field. They could 
not keep the score down. From start to 
finish Houndsditch were a beaten side. 

London during that black period was a 
desert. Gloom gripped the City. In distant 
Brixton red-eyed wives faced silently-scowling 
husbands at the evening meal, and the 
children were sent early to bed. Newsboys 
called the extras in a whisper. 

Few took the tragedy more nearly to heart 
than Daniel Rackstraw. Leaving the ground 
with the air of a father mourning over some 
prodigal son, he encountered Mr. Jacob 
Dodson, of Manchester. 

Now, Mr. Dodson was perhaps the slightest 
bit shy on the finer feelings. He should 
have respected the grief of a fallen foe. He 
should have abstained from exulting. But 
he was in too exhilarated a condition to be 
magnanimous. Sighting Mr. Rackstraw, he 
addressed himself joyously to the task of 
rubbing the thing in. Mr. Rackstraw listened 
in silent anguish. 

" If we had had Jones " he said at length. 

" That's what they all say," whooped Mr. 
Dodson. " Jones ! Who's Jones ? " 

" If we had had Jones, we should have " 

He paused. An idea had flashed upon his 
overwrought mind. " Dodson," he said, 
" look here. Wait till Jones is well again, 
and let us play this thing off again for any- 
thing you like a side in my private park." 

Mr. Dodson reflected. 

" You're on," he said. " What side bet ? 
A million ? Two million ? Three ? " 

Mr. Rackstraw shook his head scornfully. 

" A million ? Who wants a million ? I'll 
put up my Bloomer boot against your Mere- 
dith ball. Does that go ? " 

" I should say it did," said Mr. Dodson, joy- 
fully. " I've been wanting that boot for years. 
It's like finding it in one's Christmas stocking." 

" Very well," said Mr. Rackstraw. " Then 
let's get it fixed up." 

Honestly, it is but a dog's life, that of the 
short-story writer. I particularly wished at 
this point to introduce a description of Mr. 
Rackstraw's country house and estate, featur- 
ing the private football ground with its fringe 
of noble trees. It would have served a 
double purpose, not only charming the lover 
of Nature, but acting as a fine stimulus to the 
youth of the country, showing them the sort 
of home they would be able to buy some day 
if they worked hard and saved their money. 
But no. You shall have three guesses as to 

what was the cry. You give it up ? It was 
Brevity — brevity ! Let us on. 

The two teams arrived at Mr. Rackstraw's 
house in time for lunch. Clarence, his 
features once more reduced to their customary 
finely-chiselled proportions, alighted from the 
automobile with a swelling heart. Presently 
he found an opportunity to slip away and 
meet Isabel. 

I will pass lightly over the meeting of the 
two lovers. I will not describe the dewy 
softness of their eyes, the catching of their 
breath, their murmured endearments. I 
could, mind you. It is at just such descrip- 
tions that I am particularly happy. But I 
have grown discouraged. My spirit is broken. 
It is enough to say that Clarence had reached 
a level of emotional eloquence rarely met with 
among goal-keepers of the First League, when 
Isabel broke from him with a startled exclama- 
tion, and vanished ; and, looking over his 
shoulder, Clarence observed Mr. Daniel 
Rackstraw moving toward him. 

It was evident from the millionaire's 
demeanour that he had seen nothing. The 
look on his face was anxious, but not wrathful. 
He sighted Clarence, and hurried up to him. 

" Jones," he said, " I've been looking for 
you. I want a word with you." 

" A thousand, if you wish it," said Clarence, 

" Now, look here," said Mr. Rackstraw. 
" I want to explain to you just what this 
game means to me. Don't run away with 
the idea I've had you fellows down to play 
an exhibition game just to keep me merry 
and bright. If Houndsditch win to-day, it 
means that I shall be able to hold up my head 
again and look my fellow-man in the face, 
instead of crawling round on my stomach 
and feeling like a black-beetle under a steam- 
roller. Do you get that ? " 

" I do," replied Clarence. 

"And not only that," went on the mil- 
lionaire. " There's more. I have put up 
my Bloomer boot against Mr. Dodson's 
Meredith ball as a side bet. You understand 
what that means ? It means that either you 
win or my life is soured for ever. See ? " 

" I have got you," said Clarence. 

" Good. Then what I wanted to say was 
this. To-day is your day for keeping goal as 
you've never kept goal before. Everything 
depends on you. With you keeping goal like 
mother used to make it, Houndsditch are safe. 
Otherwise they are completely in the bouillon. 
It's one thing or the other. It's all up to you. 
Win, and there's four thousand pounds waiting 
for you above what you share with the others." 




Clarence waved his hand deprecatingly. 

" Mr. Rackstraw," he said, " keep your 
dross. I care nothing for money. All I ask 
of you/' proceeded Clarence, " is your consent 
to my engagement to your daughter." 

Mr. Rackstraw looked sharply at him. 

" Repeat that," he said. " I don't think 
I quite got it." 

" All I ask is your consent to my engage- 
ment to your daughter." 

" Young man," said Mr. Rackstraw, not 
without a touch of admiration, " I admire 
cheek. But there is a limit. That limit you 
have passed so far that you'd need to look for 
it with a telescope." 

" You refuse your consent ? " 

" I never said vou weren't a clever guesser." 

" Why ? " 

Mr. Rackstraw laughed. One of those nasty, 
sharp, metallic laughs that hit you like a bullet. 

" How would you support my daughter ? " 

" I was thinking that you would help to 
some extent." 

" You were, were you ? " 

" I was." 

" Oh ? " 

Mr. Rackstraw emitted another of those 

11 Well," he said, " it's off. You can take 
that as coming from an authoritative source. 
No wedding-bells for you." 

Clarence drew himself up, fire flashing from 
his eyes and a bitter smile curving his expres- 
sive lips. 

" And no Meredith ball for you ! " he cried. 

Mr. Rackstraw started as if some strong 
hand had plunged an auger into him. 

" What ! " he shouted. 

Clarence shrugged his superbly-modelled 
shoulders in silence. * 

" Come, come," said Mr. Rackstraw, 
" you wouldn't let a little private difference 
like that influence you in a really important 
thing like this football match, would you ? " 

" I would." 

" You would practically blackmail the 
father of the girl you love ? " 

" Every time." 

" Her white-haired old father ? " 

" The colour of his hair would not affect 

" Nothing would move you ? " 

" Nothing." 

" Then, by George, you're just the son-in- 
law I want. You shall marry Isabel ; and 
I'll take you into partnership in my business 
this very day. I've been looking for a good 
able-bodied bandit like you for years. You 
make Captain Kidd look like a preliminary 


three-round bout. My boy, we'll be the 
greatest combination, you and I, that the 
City has ever seen. Shake hands." 

For a moment Clarence hesitated. Then 
his better nature prevailed, and he spoke. 

" Mr. Rackstraw," he said, " I cannot 
deceive you." 

" That won't matter," said the enthu- 
siastic old man. "I bet you'll be able to 
deceive everybody else. I see it in your eye. 
My boy, we'll be the greatest " 

" My name is not Jones." 

" Nor is mine. What does that matter ? " 

" My name is Tresillian. The Hon. Tresil- 
lian. I am the younger son of the Earl of 
Runnymede. To a man of your political 
views " 

" Nonsense, nonsense," said Mr. Rackstraw. 
" What are political views compared with the 
chance of getting a goal-keeper like you into 
the family ? I remember Isabel saying some- 
thing to me about you, but I didn't know who 
you were then." 

" I am a preposterous excrescence on the 
social cosmos," said Clarence, eyeing him 

" Then I'll be one too," cried Mr. Rack- 
straw. " I own I've set my face against 
it hitherto, but circumstances alter cases. 
I'll ring up the Prime Minister on the 'phone 
to-morrow, and buy a title myself." 

Clarence's last scruple was removed. 
Silently he gripped the old man's hand, 
outstretched to meet his. 

Little remains to be said, but I am going to 
say it, if it snows. I am at my best in these 
tender scenes of idyllic domesticity. 

Four years have passed. Once more 
we are in the Rackstraw hpgie. A lady is 
coming down the stairs, leading by the hand 
her little son. It is Isabel. The years have 
dealt lightly with her. She is still the same 
stately, beautiful creature whom I would 
have described in detail long ago if I had been 
given half a chance. At the (pot of the stairs 
the child stops and points at a small, round 
object in a glass case. 

" Wah ? " he says. 

" That ? " said Isabel. " That is the ball 
Mr. Meredith used to play with when he was 
a little boy." 

She looks at a door on the left of the hall, 
and puts a finger to her lip. 

" Hush ! " she says. " We must be quiet. 
Daddy and grandpa are busy in there corner- 
ing wheat." 

And softly mother and child go out into 
the sunlit garden. 


" How the King \Vorks. 



HE Court of King George , like 
Gaul of old j is divided into 
three parts offi' ially. These 
are the departments respec- 
tively of the Lord Steward, 
the Lcrd Chamberlain, and 
ths Master of the Horse, As 
a matter of fact, ther^ is a, fourth depart- 
ment, and this k the most important of all, 
since it comprises His Majesty's personal 
staff, presided over by Lord Stamfordbam, 
still better known to the outside world as 
Sir Arthur Bigge. In 
order of strict prece- 
dence, the Lord Stew- 
ard tomes first, and 
is followed by the Lord 
Chamberlain and the 
Master of the Horse. 
At the moment these 
positions are filled re- 
spectively by the Earl 
of Chesterfield, Earl 
Spencer, and the Earl 
of (Jranard, and it is 
an invariable rule that 
each of these positions 
must be held by a 
peer of the realm. The 
appointments are all 

It is rather curious that 
the King's confidential 
Private Secretary is 
not officially recog- 
nized, since this is the 
head of the depart- 

ment that really controls Court life. Indeed ? 
it may be said that the Private Secretary is* 
the heart that supplies the life-blood to the 
main arteries of the many divisions and 
subdivisions into which the British Court is 

When His Majesty finds it necessary to 
issus an official order it h signed either by 
the Lord Chamberlain or by the Earl Marshal 
of England, who, by the way, is not a Court 
official at all, but a State official, which is a 
very different matter. \Vhen 7 however, he 

issues a personal mess- 
age to his people, or 
replies to any state- 
ment that may demand 
his attention, it is his 
Private Secretary who 
drafts the letter, sub- 
mits it for his approval, 
and finally gives direc- 
tions for its publica- 
tion. Thus it comes 
about that all " com- 
mands " for Courts, 
Levees, State Balls., 
and other functions are 
issued from the offices 
of the Lord Chamber- 
lain's department in 
Stable Yard, St. 
James's Palace ; while 
invitations to meet the 
King and Queen pri- 
vately for dinner t or 

nal f* or ^ e shooting at Bal- 

TZTn. flfflvERSTr OF MteI ork Cottl * e * 






Prvm a PhotoararA bit W, (* It. Itownty. 

- > 

emanate from Lord Stamfordham, as His 
Majesty's confidential Private Secretary, 

It is this department that is the most 
interesting of all about the Court, and the 
one that is the least known, His Majesty's 
M office/' as he smilingly calls it ? is situated 
on the first floor of Buckingham Palace on 
what is known as the I( garden front n of the 
Palace, and was formerly used by the late 
King Edward j being in close proximity to 
the room in which he died. It is a light and 
airy apartment, and is very simply furnished, 
A few years ago, when King Edward found 
that the duties of the State were becoming 
more than he could conveniently undertake, 
a large roll- top desk w r as placed here for the 
use of the then Prince of Wales. This, it is 
of rather pathetic interest to note, is still 
used by His Majesty, and the large knee-hole 
writing-table where the late King passed so 
many of his working hours is still in much 
the same condition as when he left it. 

On the other side of the room is another 
desk, now used by Lord Stamfordham, while 
His Majesty's assistant secretaries and the 
minor officials of the department are close 
at hand, in case their presence is suddenly 

King George is an extremely early riser, 
and his secretaries often find, when they 
arrive to commence their daily duties, that 
he has been hard at work for several hours* 
All letters addressed to the King and Queen 
are sent direct to whichever of the Royal 
residences they are occupying from the 
General Post Office in London in specially- 





Hfc" 'i 

HE 1/ 

vl A 


V^t3 1 



From a rtotipp-apfe bit //. HVtter JfcnMfc 

sealed bags. In the case of Buckingham 
Palace, this bag arrives, as a rule, just as His 
Majesty is finishing dinner, and is taken 
charge of by the secretary on duty, who opens 
it and proceeds to sort out the contents* 
Such letters as will ultimately demand the 
personal attention of King George are placed 
before him the same night, but it is not often 
that he deals with them at the moment s save 
in matters that will not brook delay. He 
glances through them, makes a few brief 
notes upon them, and they arc then placed 
under lock and key until he is ready for them 
on the following morning. 

He has barely had time to deal with these 
before the Royal breakfast is served, and 
almost simultaneously an even larger bag 
of correspondence arrives, Only those who 
have been called upop to handle them can 
realize the vastness of the Royal post-bags, 
the contents of which often range from a 
private communication from the Kaiser or the 
Czar to a letter from some amiable lunatic 
who considers that his claim to the British 
Throne is superior to that of King George. By 
the organization of a w r ell-nigh perfect system, 
however, this heavy correspondence is dealt 
with in remarkably quick time. Lord Stam- 
fordham, should he be on duty, opens every 
communication, and, glancing at it, places 
the "bulk of it in the large crimson leather 
baskets labelled w r ith the tenor of t^ie epistle. 

Thus invitations to undertake public 

functions of one description or another go 

into one basket, charitable appeals into 

another, the official report of the proceedings 







Frotn a Fhutogrnph by W- J" IK Dentine?. 

of the two Houses of Parliament into a 
smaller basket, letters of a personal or 
semi-personal character into a fourth, and 
so on. At the finish there is a small but 
highly important little pile left. This is 
composed of letters from the rulers of other 
States, personal reports from our Ambassadors 
abroad , or communications from Ministers at 
home. These never for one instant leave the 
custody of whoever is entrusted with the 
task of opening them. There is a special 
box standing on the table with a slit in the 
top of it wide enough to take any paper. 
It is fastened with a patent lock, of 
which only the King, Lord Knollys, 
and Lord * Stamford ham have the keys; 
so that anything dropped in, even by acci- 
dent, can only be taken out by one of these 

These are the first letters that are presented 
to the King every morning, together with a 
memorandum reminding him of the duties 
he has to perform that day. In many cases 
the King elects to write letters in reply with 
his own hand, but should this not be con- 
venient he sends for one of his secretaries 
and dictates his reply. His Majesty is by 
no means a quick thinker, and likes to ponder 
over every word that he proposes to place 
on paper. In this respect he presents a 
curious contrast to his late father, who would 
reply to the most important letter in a few 
seconds, and who rarely or never revised 
anything when once it was written. Very 
careful record is kept of every letter written 
by the King in person, and in due course 

Digitized by OOOQ I C 

Frvm a Fhflte&rafih by IF. rfr D. Ikncnty. 

these are sent down to Windsor to be added 
to the private archives there. 

As a rule, so soon as he has disposed of 
the letters that demand his personal atten- 
tion, the King next turns to the reports of 
the proceedings in Parliament on the previous 
day. He goes through these most pains- 
takingly, and will often issue orders for cer- 
tain points upon which he desires further 
information to be looked up and the result 
placed before him + Possibly he will likewise 
issue orders for a special messenger to be sent 
round to the Premier or the Foreign Secretary 
to say that the King desires his presence at 
the Palace at a certain time, and will ask for 
a complete statement upon some new ques- 
tion that may have arisen, King George is 
not content to be monarch of these realms in 
name alone, and aspires to be a real head of 
the State and not a nominal one, Though 
he has not that deep acquaintance with 
European politics which characterized his 
beloved father, he keeps very closely in touch 
with all that takes place in any country of 
the world, and so soon as there seems to be 
a probability of any international friction 
arising in any part of the globe, by special 
direction of the King large-scale maps of the 
territory in question are at once hung in such 
position as to enable him to make instant 
reference to them. 

King George, moreover, keeps a very vigi- 
lant eye upon the other departments of his 
Court. He is a great lover of horses, though 
he has not that inborn enthusiasm for the 
Turf that characterized King Edward, and 




l\vm a Photupraph bit H p . <£ D. Domity, 

it is rarely that he allows a day to pass when 
he is in town without paying a visit to the 
Royal Mews, while he is in constant com- 
munication with the Hon. W, C W. Fitz- 
william, the Crown Equerry, who, under the 
Earl of Granard, Master of the Horse, is in 
charge of the Royal stud of horses. Since 
His Majesty ascended the Throne many 
changes have been introduced into the Royal 
Mews, and motor-cars are now substituted 
in the majority of cases for horses, and the 
number of animals now constantly kept here 
is less than a quarter of what was the case 
even ten years ago. 

Even the famous old State coach, in which 
their Majesties drive to the opening of Parlia- 
ment and other similar functions, is no longer 
to be seen in the Royal Mews, but during 
such times as it is not in use is kept at the 
Royal carriage-builders', very carefully sheeted 
up. A certain number of horses are, however, 
still maintained here. Queen Mary, for 
instance, still makes use of a handsome pair 
of blacks for her drives in the Park or upon 
her shopping expeditions in the West-end, 
while there are always two or three hacks 
kept here for the use of His Majesty upon 
his early morning canters, and a still larger 
number for the use of the officials in attend- 
ance, A large portion of what were formerly 
the Mews has been converted into a motor 
garage, where several cars are constantly in 
readiness for the use of the King and Queen. 

It is to be doubted if ever there was a King 
of England who kept so closely and so con- 
stantly in touch with every department of 



From a Pkntuffraph bv IF, <t l>. JtoHroey. 

his vast Household as does King George. 
Reports reach him at stated times from the 
Master of the Household (Sir Charles 
Frederick), the Lord Chamberlain, (Earl 
Spencer), and the Lord Steward, and these 
receive his immediate and most careful atten- 
tion. He checks all his accounts most pains- 
takingly, and every month there is laid before 
him a summary of the receipts and expendi- 
ture of every department in the Royal House- 
hold, He likewise insists that the young 
Prince of Wales shall make himself personally 
acquainted with the administration of the 
estates of the Royal Duchy of Cornwall, so 
that His Royal Highness pays frequent 
visits to the office of the Duchy in Bucking- 
ham Gate, where the details of its administra- 
tion arc carefully explained to him by those 
in charge. 

The King is, as already mentioned, an 
extremely early riser, and likes to get his 
State affairs of the day completed, so far as 
possible j before noon. About this hour he 
gives audiences to such of his Ministers, repre- 
sentatives of foreign Powers, and others as 
desire to see him, and he then takes a brief 
rest before lunch. Part of this time he 
devotes to a visit to the Queen and such of 
the Royal children as are in residence. This 
latter is a duty that His Majesty never 
neglects j and he always contrives to give the 
young princes half an hour or so of his time, 
either in the open air or, should the weather 
be unfavourable , in the Royal nurseries. 
Needless to say, this is a time that is very 
keenly looked fen ward to by the children. 






From a phntopntph by II'. S. Stvnrt- 

Unless there Is any official present at an 
interview with a Minister or a foreign Ambas- 
sador, His Majesty himself takes down a 
very full summary of what has taken place. 
This is subsequently copied out and then filed 
away among his private papers for reference 
at any future time. If the interview is of a 
purely formal character, or is of more than 
usual importance, the King has one of his 
secretaries in attendance to undertake this 
task. The King is insistent upon being kept 
fully informed of all that takes place in 
our relationship with foreign States, and he 
will often send to the Foreign Office for com- 
plete information upon some point that has 
suddenly arisen. He followed the e%ents 
that led up to the war in Tripoli with the 
closest attention, and intimated that he was 
frankly surprised at the unexpected declara- 
tion of war by Italy. He made it clear, 
however, that this was his personal opinion, 
and that it w T as not to be regarded in any 
way as an official expression. 

The King; is even more scrupulous to 
observe the purely constitutional aspect of 
his exalted position than even King Edward. 
He gives the closest attention to the views 
of his responsible Ministers, From time to 
time he will venture to make a suggestion 
for consideration, but he always insists that 
his words shall be dealt with purely on their 
merits, and if any demur is raised he promptly 
withdraws them, For all that, when the 
occasion demands it ? King George can use the 
iron gauntlet with effect, as more than 

one who serves him has had good reason to 

Not very long ago, one of the minor officials 
of the Court received orders to carry out the 
preparation of some documents His Majesty 
required, and received very detailed instruc- 
tions as to how these were to be drawn up. 
The official in question, however, thought 
that he could introduce sonic improvement 
into their form and, incidentally, save him- 
self some amount of time. In due course 
the papers were laid before the King, who 
glanced through them with a gathering frown. 
When he had finished, he quietly tore them 
up, dropped them into a waste-paper basket 

by his side, and then said, " Now, Mr. 

we will have them clone again in my w T ay, if 
you do not mind." 

The room in which His Majesty transacts 
his business is conveniently placed for his 
private suite, and he makes it a rule only to 
receive official visitors in his u office," invii ing 
such personal friends as call upon him to join 
him in his private smoking-room. This is 
one of the most handsomely-fitted-up of the 
whole of the private suites of the Palace, 
and was carried out by the direction, and 
under the personal supervision, of the late 
King Edward. It is not very large and is a 
thorough w man's room " in every sense of 
the word, containing, among other things, 
shooting trophies, mostly testimonies to 
His Majesty's skill with rifle ? gunj and 
rod. Occasionally the King will suggest , 
during the course of a busy morning, that 
Lord Stamfordhamj Colonel Sir F. Ponsonby, 
or others of his secretarial staff should sus- 
pend their duties for a short time and accom- 
pany him to the smoking-room, there to have 
a chat over a brief smoke. The King does not 
smoke to anything like the same extent as 
his late Majesty, of whom it is on record that 
he never was seen on his way to his bathroom 
of a morning without a cigar in his mouth. 
It is very rarely that the King smokes any- 
thing stronger than a cigarette, though when 
he is travelling on the sea, as in the case of 
the Medina voyage, he will light a briar pipe 
with obvious enjoyment. He could never ? 
however, be called a heavy smoker, and this 
may be accounted for in some respect by the 
fact that the Queen does not like the smell 
of tobacco in any room she enters. 

Unless King George has some public duty 
to perform, he regards the afternoon as his 
own time, and when at Buckingham Palace 
usually spends it in the gardens of the Palace, 
when the season of thg year is suitable, read- 

ingor iftMMta 0rperhaps 




he will visit a picture gallery. He never 
takes afternoon tca ; and has nothing between 
luncheon and dinner. This latter meal is 
now served earlier than usual , eight o'clock 
being the customary hour, unless their 
Majesties have arranged to visit a theatre 
in the evening, when the hour is advanced 
to seven. King Edward, on the other hand, 
never dined much before nine, while half an 
hour later was customary, if he were not 
going out. 

It is a matter of some regret to the King 
that he is no longer able, by reason of his 
position, to be present at the debates in the 
Houses of Parliament. This was quite one 
of his favourite ways of passing an afternoon 
or an evening when he was Prince of Wales. 
His interest in politics is a very deep one, and 
not only does he read the official reports of 
the proceedings in either House with the 
greatest care, as has already been mentioned, 
but he carefully peruses the leading articles 
in the principal daily papers when there is 
anything of more than common interest taking 
place. For instance, Hb Majesty might 
justly claim a greater and more intimate 
acquaintance with the provisions of Mr. 
Lloyd George's Insurance Bill than any other 
person, save the author of the measure him- 
self. He has studied the Bill line by line and 
almost word by word. 

No matter what his evening engagements 
may be , His Majesty always contrives to give 
an hour or so to examining such affairs of 
State as may have arisen during the day, and 
he will often sit up until the early hours of 
the morning considering matters that have 
been brought under his notice, and determin- 
ing in what manner they shall be treated. 
As a rule, however, he likes to retire to bed 
not later than midnight, but he never leaves 
until the following morning anything of 
pressing importance that can be dealt with 
at night. 

Naturally, His Majesty cannot hope to 
exert that great influence in European politics 
that the late King Edward did, and this is 
partly the reason why the annual spring and 
autumn visits that King Edward used to pay 
to the Continent have been abandoned in the 
present reign. He maintains, however, a 
regular correspondence with several of the 
rulers of the leading States of Europe, includ- 
ing the Kaiser, the Czar, and the Kings of 
Italy, Spain, Greece, and Norway, and has 
promised to pay State visits to several of 
these States when a suitable opportunity 
presents itself. By His Majesty's direction, 
his secretaries keep him fully posted in the 

gilized by Google 

VoL jrliih— 3* 



i-'rt/ni a Phtiloffraph bf Laptf/Jtcr, Ltd. 

affairs of almost every civilized State, espe- 
cially so far as they affect this country. 

It is in his devotion to the outlying portions 
of the British Empire that His Majesty best 
discloses himself as at once a leader and a 
student. It is certain that the British 
Empire, as a whole, never had so devoted a 
monarch as is King George, while it is equally 
the fact that there has been no Sovereign 
who has ever occupied the throne of Great 
Britain, its Colonies and Dependencies, who 
had the same intimate acquaintance with the 
Empire as a whole. There is nothing too 
small in the tiniest of our Colonial possessions 
that he does not deem worthy of his attention, 
and he is able to discuss most e% ? ents in the 
light of persona] experience. 

Space docs not allow of detailed refer- 
ence to the interesting subdivisions into 
which the British Court is divided, but 
it may be said at once that there is no 
more complete or perfect organization in 
the world than that of which King George 
is the head. No labour-saving device is ever 
brought out that does not receive his personal 
attention, and if it promises to be of the 
slightest assistance towards the reduction 
of labour it is immediately installed. The 
King is essentially a business man himself, 
and he expects all those about him to be the 
same. Anything approaching slackness he 
will not tolerate for a* moment, but most 
emphatically no one could wish for a better 
or more considerate master for whom to 

■ Original from 


A Costume Pageant of Leading 

An example of " Picture - Buiiding," as described in the article on page 60. The 
arranged by us for the organizers of the great Dickens Centenary Costume Ball 

leading part which THE STRAND MAGAZINE ha* 


Dickens Characters, 

above characters are selected from the work of various illustrators of Dickens, and 
at the Royal Albert Hall next month. We need not remind our readers of the 
played in ihe celebration of the Dickens Centenary. Ori oi ri a I from 


Your Gods Are Not My Gods. 


Illustrated by Tom Peddie. 

a reputation in West by. In 
certain circumstances men 
were always liable to say, 
' l Oh, why don't you go and 
ask Joe Car tw rights and see 
what he thinks ?" 

Nine times out of ten the person so admon- 
ished would go. Sometimes he would get 
what he wanted, but sometimes he would 
fail to get it, for it was not always CartwrighCs 
mood to be communicative. Hut, if he were 
lucky enough to get sound advice, it was 
his own fault if he did not act upon it. Never- 
theless, there were cases of men who, in the 
vanity of their own opinions, still holding 
in their secret thoughts that their own wisdom 
was naturally and unquestionably superior 
to anyone else's, even after gaining Cart- 
wright's advice , did not act upon it. With 
a certainty which was almost uncanny, these 
men lived to know a day when they bitterly 
regretted having thought too much of their 
own brains. 

The long and short of all this is that Joseph 
Cartwright was one of those rare men who 
have a positive genius for finance. They 
may deal in millions or they may manipulate 
shillings. But with them a million is likely 
to produce another million and a shilling is 
pretty certain to double itself. Joe Cart- 
wright did not deal in millions nor yet in 
shillings, but in pounds, in fifties and hun- 
dreds, and, occasionally, in thousands. 

" Joe Cartwright is one of the shrewdest 
men alive/' was a common remark in West by. 

But it was said, pretty generally, that he 
was never generous, except at other people's 
expense, and often cruelly hard. 

Yes, Joe Cartwright was shrewd. But was 
he good or bad ? 

Well, you must look into his heart for your- 
self , and see there— well, as much as you have 
the power and insight, or the goodness or 
badness j to see for yourself. 

After a certain time people in Westby took 
little interest in Cartwright 's son, Cyril/ 

11 Westby isn't good enough for him/' was 
the comment most of those Westby people 
made upon him, before they more or less 
forgot him, 

by Google 

But Cartwright was a widower and Cyril 
was the only child, and, though acute insight 
is not very common in Westby, some people 
felt that there was something like tragedy in 
Cyril's turning out badly, as they expressed it. 

Cartwright scented this opinion soon enough 
and he promptly blew it to the winds, 

■*' Cyril would not have. done any good in 
Westby/ 1 he said, " He is going to follow 
his own bent. That is what he ought to do. 
I am quite satisfied." 

*' But what is he doing?" pressed one of 
Cart wright T s old friends when he sat with him 
one evening. 

" Well j he is studying Art and Literature 
in London," Cartwright vouchsafed in reply. 
" I am quite satisfied. Help yourself to 
another glass of port." 

Of course there was no getting behind that 
" I am quite satisfied/ 1 It closed up all 

After a time, however, people put two and 
two together and formed their own opinions. 

On rare occasions they saw Cyril. In 
Westby people attach great importance to 
clothes, and those which the young man wore 
were poles asunder from his father's black 
coat, spotless linen, well-blacked boots, gold 
watch-chain, and square -crowned hard felt 
hat. His extraordinary taste in ties> mere 
loose bows of ribbon, seemed to indicate that 
he might hold loose and extraordinary views. 
People jumped to conclusions. They did not 
know what passed between father and son. 
But they guessed. 

u What a blow to Joe Cartwright," they 
reflected, " to have such a fool of a son. 
Quite satisfied, indeed ! Well, it's easy 
enough to see through that" 

And someone asked Cartwright once this 
question: " Is there any money in Art and 
Literature ? " 

" Plenty 3 when you make your name/' was 
the answer they got. " It's just like other 

But the old man said nothing concerning 
a certain extraordinary view which his son 
held about doing a thing for what it was 
worth in itself, and not for the money to be 
got from doing it. 

Still, people soon forgot all about Cyril 

Original from 





Cart wright. For a whole year he never set 
foot in the town. Then for one Christmas 
he did not come home. 

The end of the January after that Christ- 
mas brings us to our story. 

The twenty-third of the month was a day 
of rough w r inter weather ? and as the evening 
udvanred and the niirht rinsed in the inclem- 
ency of the elements increased. But the 
stout, warm, comfortable house, which Joseph 
Cartwright had built for himself and in which 

by Google 

he lived, stood 
four square to 
the gusts of the 
violent wind and 
the driven 
showers of snow 
and sleet, without 
wincing. All the 
doors and win- 
dows fitted per- 
fectly. The blinds 
were drawn. 
Within there 
were good fires 
and solid com- 
fort. In the heart 
of that sub- 
stantial material 
security Cart- 
wright sat, 

His chair was 
a little closer to 
the fire than 
usual. That after- 
noon he had been 
at his solicitor's, 
and the business 
in hand had kept 
them longer than 
he had expected, 
He had walked 
home against the 
east wind and a 
fall of sleet. That 
had not gone 
well with his old 

But the room 
was warm. The 
firelight played 
pleasantly on the 
heavy gilt frames 
of the pictures, 
for he had turned 
down the gas, as 
he wished to 
think and not to 
read; his supper 
was over and a wineglass of his well-matured 
port stood within easy reach. 

The room was ponderously substantial. 
Everything in it was "good." Everything in 
it had cost a respectable sum of money. 

Sometimes Cartwright counted up what the 
furniture of that room had cost him. Perhaps 
he was doing so then, as he sat by the fire that 
January night, in lonely grandeur. >or a time 
the dignified silence of the room remained 
unbroken. But before long it was violated- 
Original from 




" Fudge ! " exclaimed the respectably- 
dressed, white-haired man sitting there in 
that substantial security. " Stuff and rub- 
bish ! " 

He made these two comments on whatever 
was passing through his mind with something 
like anger. There was more than contempt. 
His tone jarred upon the repose of the room. 
Yet he was in truth defending that room and 
all that it stood for and typified. 

" Fudge ! " he repeated, and sipped his 

He was disputing something with someone 
in his thoughts. That something was the 
value of money, and that someone was his 

That afternoon Joseph Cartwright had 
signed a new will. 

It was a complicated document, carefully 
thought out. It divided the " heap " of 
this world's goods which he had raked up for 
himself in various ways. It set up several 
trusts. It safeguarded that " heap/' so that 
it should last as long as possible. It was all 
cut and dried. It contained a clause setting 
on record his opinion of his son. That 
clause would be the "last word " in the 
controversy between them. 

" Since my said son does not understand 
the value of. capital/' it ran, " I therefore 
constitute the following trust for his benefit ; 
so that, at least, he shall never know want." 

That clause was to be " the last word " 
with good and well-calculated emphasis. And 
it was satisfactory ; yes, it pleased him. But 
somehow something was not satisfactory. 
That house, that room, all was to be sold and 
realized. Relatives whom he had remem- 
bered to mention to share in his. " heap " 
only after an effort of memory might or 
might not be alive. 

His brother Jacob ? Well, he had , not 
seen him for years. He would be rather 
surprised, perhaps, at being remembered. 
Janet's children ? Where were they ? He 
hardly cared. For all he knew, they might 
be like Cyril rather than what they ought to 
be. His cousin Frank ? Was he married, 
or was he not ? He was not sure. 

But there was one, whose flesh and blood 
and bones had come from his own body, who 
would some day be looking down on him, 
looking upon his face with its closed eyes, 
and thinking. What would that one think 
after he had read that " last word " which he 
could never answer ? What would that one 
think when he was being polite to those 
relatives he had never heard of before ? 
What would that one think when he realized 

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what his folly had cost him ? Would he see 
that it was folly ? Very likely not. He 
might hold that he was right after all. 

" Fudge ! " Cartwright exclaimed again. 

And then once more, though he was not 
an imaginative man, he saw that spectacle 
of Cyril looking down on him when he was 
dead, and thinking. 

"Ugh!" He shivered. Was it his 
thoughts, or had he really caught a chill ? 

As he went slowly upstairs it could hardly 
be said that he was a happy man. But of 
one thing he knew nothing — that in the morn- 
ing he would not be walking down those well- 
built stairs of which he was so proud because 
they were so well built that they never 

One night, a week later, Cyril Cartwright was 
dining with Edith Kelway, the girl to whom 
he was engaged to be married, at a restaurant 
in Soho. They had a table in a quiet corner, 
where they were neither overlooked nor 
overheard. Alphonse, who knew them well, 
had waited on them perfectly. It was one 
of the pleasant rules of their pleasant court- 
ship that once a week, every Wednesday 
night, they dined together thus, always at 
the same restaurant, always at the same table, 
and always waited upon by Alphonse. 

They were cracking nuts and talking. 

Edith Kelway was a London girl, bred and 
born. At school in London, a graduate of 
London University, now teaching in a London 
school, she knew no other environment, 
except during holidays spent cheaply on the 
Continent or at the seaside. She belonged 
to a family which was also " London " in 
blood and bone. Her father put the whole 
of his heart and brain into the school of which 
he was head master; her mother was promi- 
nent in the local life of the part of London 
in which they lived ; her elder sister " kept 
house " ; of thr^e brothers one was a medical 
student, one a curate in the East-end, and one 
a Civil Servant. Edith was " the baby " of 
the family. 

The Kelways thus were an interesting 
family. Every one of them worked hard. 
It was with them that young Cartwright had 
spent the Christmas just passed. 

At their weekly dinner the two lovers 
discussed all things under the sun, from the 
newest book or play to the oldest of subjects 
which engaged people talk about — their 
future life together. 

That night a new subject had been 
broached, brought up by a recent novel, 
and welcomed by Edith because her lover 

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might be supposed to have real knowledge 
about it — " The Country Town." 

11 I can't understand what Westby must 
be like/ 5 she said. 

Her pretty face reflected the puzzled state 
of her mind. 

" How could you ? " ex- 
claimed young C a r t w r i g h t, 
cracking a Brazil foT her. 

M But tell me." 

11 Well, it's all intensely dull- 
Nobody thinks. Everybody who 
h anybody sets great store on 
eating well and dressing well 
Then, when you meet, you 
criticize people you know. 
Generally you pirrk holes. You 

" Yes, Can you wonder that IVe left it ? n 

(C I can understand your leaving Westby," 

she said. u But there's your father* You 

see very little of him. Don't mind my 

saying this, dear. But tell me why. Some 



T" In If lUT 

Ml Ifll 

I i i 

II i 






never by any chance praise if you can possibly 
help it. And year by year you all grow older. 
Now and again you pet hold of a bit of scandal 
and chew it for all you are worth." 
" How awful ! " 

by Google 

dav t vou know, I should like to see your 

Young Cartwright met her gaze and 
weighed his answer. How T could he tell hei 
that his father would start by estimating 
Original from 


4 o 


her by her clothes ? How could he tell her lt It isn't easy to explain.'" 

that he would estimate her father by the But in the end he tried to explain it. It 

amount of money he had made and could was the two different ways of looking at the 

settle on his daughter ? How, above all, value of money. His father estimated men, 

could he tell her that he 

and his father were w holly 

out of sympathy with each 

other ? So he turned the 

subject lightly. 

He adapted a doggerel 
hymn well known in the 
early days of the Salvation 
Army to his purpose, and 
answered in rhyme : — 

** My father and I we dont 

I understand him, but he 

doesn't me*' 


you mean; 


asked, li that he is old-fashioned and you not by what they were, but by what they 

are up-to-date ? " made. 

" Perhaps that expresses it/' 4I But," said Cyril, " that is not my way 

tb No/' she pressed ; l4 it's more than that, of looking at things. The best work in the 

Tell me what it is." world is done for its own sake. Isn't that 

rv -• ^k (~\ Original from 




so ? You paint a good picture if you paint 
it with your heart and soul and make it good 
itself, not if you paint it for what it will fetch. 
But my father doesn't understand this. 
Money is his god ; he surrounds himself with 
solid material comfort. He doesn't know 
what an idea or an ideal is. He thinks I am 
a spendthrift, because I only value money 
for the good it does for myself and others. 
There ; I've put it clumsily, perhaps. But 
that is why my father and I disagree." 

Edith, with practical common-sense, saw 
that there was, indeed, a tragedy, but that 
there was exaggeration on both sides. 

" Does your father live alone ? " she asked. 

" Yes. He has two servants and a man 
to do the garden. Remember, he's not alto- 
gether lonely. He has such a keen eye for 
money-making that he is a sort of financial 
adviser to half the town." 

" But, surely, he really has only you ? " 

" He thinks I'm a fool." 

Edith looked across the table at her lover. 
He was undoubtedly clever. He had origin- 
ality and enthusiasm for his work. His 
mobile, eager face, clouded now by the 
thought of his perpetual misunderstanding 
with his father, was one that betrayed an 
intensity of restless, daring thought. But 
she knew he was also sensitive of criticism, 
especir lly from those who, he felt, did not 
understand him ; and not merely that, but 
also very obstinate when he knew himself to 
be in the right. She guessed that in his 
father there was a similar obstinacy, just 
as there was also a similar keenness of 

" Surely," she urged, " you should make 

Cyril met her gaze and smiled. 

" You do not know my father. He doesn't 
disguise his contempt for my views." 

" Does he show his contempt to other 
people ? " 

He looked at her keenly. 

" Why do you ask that ? No, I don't think 
he does. He knows our difference of opinion 
is our own affair, not other people's." 

" Then, don't you see how he feels it ? It 
must be the great disappointment of his life." 

She spoke earnestly, certain in her own mind 
of the truth of what she said. 

" The great disappointment of his life ! " 
Cyril repeated, weighing the words. " That 
sounds rather sensational, doesn't it ? But, 
still, I suppose it's true. Only — don't you 
see ? — I can't help it." 

At that the subject seemed exhausted. 

Then Edith did an impulsive, lovable, thing. 

by L^OOgle 

She seemed to feel that this quarrel between 
a father and an only son was something which 
threatened the happiness of her engagement. 
It jarred upon her. She was so happy, Cyril 
was so good and clever in her eyes, she was 
looking into the future so joyously — and now 
this cloud had arisen ! 

She reached across the table and put her 
hand on Cyril's. 

" Oh, I am so sorry," she said. " Can't 
you two make it up and let there be one less 
quarrel in the world ? " 

He drew his hand away. How little she 
understood ! How much she exaggerated 
quite an ordinary and inevitable difference of 

" It is not so bad as all that," he said. 
" We write, you know. Here's a letter I had 
from my father this morning." 

He took it from his pocket and passed it 
over. She hesitated. Did he mean her to 
read it ? Then something prompted her to 
do so. She read it through. 

Having read it through once, she read it 
through again, and yet a third time. 

Then she looked up. Cyril was watching 

"What's the matter?" he asked. "It 
only says he has a cold." 

" No," she protested, " it's worse than that* 
Don't you see it does all but ask you to go and 
see him ? It tells you when he got the chill — 
a week ago. It's written in snatches. Can't 
you see that ? Here and there the lines break. 
It's ever so well done, but I am sure only one 
or two words were written at a time. More- 
over, I am sure it was written in bed. The 
lines slant." 

" Let me look." 

Cyril had received the letter that morning 
at his studio, had paused in his work to glance 
through it, and had then stuffed it into his 

He saw now the things which Edith had 
seen, but he felt sure she exaggerated their 
importance. If his father had been really ill 
he would have said so. 

Edith had beckoned to Alphonse. 

" Can you find me a Great Eastern time- 
table ? " she inquired. 

" What do you want that for ? " asked 
Cyril, sharply. 

Edith paled. It was the first time she had 
acted for him. 

" I want you to go down to Westby to- 
night," she said, quietly. 

" What, and spoil our evening ! " he 
exclaimed.. " It's only just past eight ! " 

She paused before speaking. She was 




putting her thoughts into order. It was not 
merely an impulse which urged her, or a mere 
instinct that she was right. She knew how 
hard it would have been for Cyril's father to 
ask him to come. He had not been home for 
Christmas. That must have widened the 
breach between them. But that letter did 
all but ask it. She was quite sure of that. 
And a chill a week ago might have been 
bronchitis now for several days, and with an 
old man there might be other weakness. 

" You must go to-night, dear," she pleaded. 
" I ask it of you. Let me find the train." 

Alphonse had brought the time-table, and 
even as she spoke she was turning over the 

Cyril reached across the table and put his 
hand on the book. 

"All right," he said. "Don't bother. 
There's a train at nine-fifteen. I'll go by it. 
I know what you are afraid of." 

The square, comfortable house in which 
Joseph Cartwright lived in such solid and 
substantial material security was strangely 
permeated with a fear which was well under- 
stood, but not expressed in words. 

The master of the house was seriously ill. 
He had two nurses. He was not yet in 
danger. If he had been his son would have 
been wired to. But it was felt that at any 
time the necessity for sending that telegram 
might arise. 

Everything was being carried on properly 
in that well-ordered house. The housekeeper 
did her work scrupulously, the usual servant 
did hers, the extra servant, employed for this 
time of pressure, felt the necessity to do all 
that was expected of her. The sick man, 
propped up by his pillows, inquired whether 
the household machinery was in good working 
order, and was assured that it was. But 
had he cared to think of it, as he lay there 
fighting his battle, nothing that was done for 
him was done for love. 

Perhaps he did think about it. He was 
thinking, indeed, a good deal about his son 

Of course Cartwright knew quite well that 
it was serious with him. He knew just what 
his chance was. It was rather poor. But he 
was not yet in danger. 

Somehow or another he felt that he ought 
to pull through. He felt that he ought to 
struggle with his last ounce of strength to 
turn the scale. But most unaccountably 
there existed, somewhere at the back of his 
mind, a feeling that he was rather tired. But 
he did not realize why this was, though he 


had a sort of suspicion of the truth. That 
unpleasant truth, now making itself felt, was 
just this. Though in money matters Joseph 
Cartwright' s life had been a great success, in 
certain other matters it had been a great 
failure. And the worst failure of all was 
failure with Cyril. 

Shrewd and clever to the last, however, 
Cartwright had a scheme on foot even as he 
lay there in serious illness. He had got a 
telegram ready written, to be sent to Cyril 
when the doctor directed, but not sooner. 
The scandal of his dying alone was certainly 
to be avoided. But, in the meantime, he 
had arranged a little test. He had written a 
letter. It was such a letter as would bring 
a son who loved his father to that father's 
side. If it did not, that father would know 
for certain before he died that his son was 
what he thought he was, and that therefore 
that will he had made was right and proper. 

But the worst of it was that the test was 
going against him. 

The day had passed. There had been no 
word from Cyril, much less his arrival. 
Preparations for the night were being made. 
The doctor had looked in. The nurse con- 
sidered that her patient was rather less 
cheerful than usual. He was apparently 
dozing now. In reality he was listening. 

It was nearly half-past eleven when 
suddenly he opened his eyes. 

" What is that ? " he demanded. 

The nurse, sitting at the bedside and 
absorbed in the romantic climax of a new 
novel in which an eminent doctor lost his 
heart to a nurse, looked up. 

" I did not hear anything," she said. 

" It was the front-door bell." 

" I did not hear it, sir," she said. " I don't 
think you can hear it in this room." 

" Nonsense. I've heard it scores of times. 
Go and see what it was." 

The nurse prepared to do so ; but she 
delayed for a moment, and thus gave Cyril 
just time to learn how matters stood and to 
mount the stairs. 

The door opened softly, and he stood in 
the doorway in his gloves and overcoat. 
He closed the door without a sound and came 
to the bedside. 

" How are you, dad ? " he asked. 

In truth Cyril had found time during his 
journey to think. He had found his fears 
confirmed, with a shock of sheer fright. And 
this completed the process which had been 
begun, with true insight, by Edith Kelway. 
He had got down to one of the great realities 
of life. 

Original from 




His father looked at him. The gloves and 
overcoat showed he had come up at once. 
His coming at all showed that the letter test 
had worked as it should have worked. 

H I am very much better," said the sick 

was sitting in his father's room. (1 Get up 
and fetch those papers in the top right- 
hand drawer of the bureau/' Joseph Cart- 
wright directed, "and give them to me." 
Cyril did so. His father, who was now 
sitting up in bed, took one docu- 
ment out of the bundle. 

"Put this in the fire/' he said, 
f * Hold the poker on it so that 
it doesn't fly up the chimney. 

man , as he brought up his hand from under 
the sheets- 

Afterwards— some days afterwards— Cyril 

by v.* 




Don't look at the ashes. Break them up," 
For he knew that sometimes one can read 
writing on burnt paper. 

Cyril and Edith never knew what that 
burnt document was. But they made a 
guess. It was, of course, the will which had 
been made only a fortnight or so before it 
was destroyed, 

Original from — 


Have Undergraduates Deteriorated? 


XFORD and Cambridge still 
hold the premier place among 
English Universities, This 
is due not only to their 
reputation, their age, and 
the historic interest that clus- 
ters round the ancient walls 
of the various colleges, but to the fact that 
to-day these l~nivur>itio du influence, most 
vitally 5 English life, both private and public. 
For the great bulk of the clergy of the Church 
of England are still drawn from the ranks of 
'Varsity men, as also, to an increasing extent, 
are Nonconformist ministers. Besides, it is 
an exception to find a member of His Majesty's 
Government who has not been an alumnus of 
either University, And it is well known that 
the permanent officials, who wield so much 
power and are so little heard of, are Oxford 
or Cambridge men. Almost to a man the 
head masters and assistant masters of great 
public schools have been through one of the 
two Universities, Therefore it is a question of 
vital national interest as to whether the whole 
life — both moral and physical — of the Univer- 
sities is at as high a level as it was a generation 
ago , or whether there are signs of deteriora- 
tion. Is the undergraduate of to-day, morally 
and physically, as good as he was twenty or 
thirty years ago ? That was the question 
addressed to the heads of different colleges 
at Oxford and Cambridge, and we are deeply 
indebted to the interesting replies received 
upon this question, itself originally suggested 
by a speech of Dr. Welldon, Dean of 
Manchester j which caused much discussion. 

Let us take Oxford first. Dn Warren , 
the famous head of Magdalen College, Oxford, 




' TO 


From a phatwajJi. ftp FkuttKhnm Co. 

and entertainer of Royalty, has had a long and 
varied experience of undergraduate life. He 
is optimistic. His reply is as follows : — 

" My firm conviction is that the average 
undergraduate is better both physically and 
intellectually j than the average of thirty years 
ago* All records tend to be broken," 

The Rev. W. A. Spooner, Fellow and 
Tutor of New College, writes : — 

" On the whole, I should say that I find 
very little signs of deterioration, either 

by t^ 


Fra*n a PftotoprafA by Photochrvm Cfc 

physical or moral. The men have gained 
somewhat in sobriety and are more careful 
of their money ; but they are rather more 
pleasure -loving and childish than they used 
to be. I should say that intellectually the 
average was about the same as it used to be, 
but there are few men of special distinction 
in any particular line, This seems to me to 
be due to the range of education being 
widened ? while nothing is very thoroughly 

One of the most interesting replies received 
was from the Rev. Dr. Jack son , Rector of 
Merton College. He has evidently given deep 
consideration to this question, and the result 
of his long experience is most valuable : — 

" The composition of the mass of under- 
graduates varies considerably. Fifty years 
apo, when I was an undergraduate, it was 
homogeneous. Consequently a sketch like 
* Verdant Green ' could be drawn which had 
a good many traits of resemblance to a large 
part of the society of that day. * Verdant 
Green ' is now almost prehistoric. So with 
other sketches. If they have some resenv 
Original from 




blance to the facts to which they refer, they 
soon become obsolete. 

" The undergraduates are becoming more 
and more heterogeneous. It is misleading to 
characterize them in the mass. That is one 
important point. 

" Another point is also of great importance. 
The undergraduate of a particular time is 
what he is because of the general influence of 
society brought to bear on him outside Oxford 
and in his earlier training — though something 
is due to Oxford itself, 

[t Even in the last twenty years new 
elements have been coming in and the original 
homogeneous constituents declining, Many 
of the good homes where University education 
was a tradition have become impoverished. 
An increasing number come from homes with 
no such tradition — some wealthy— many 
poorer men, with help and with utilitarian 
views, wishing to better their worldly pros- 
pects. There must be five hundred such or 
more. Then a great many are working hard 
for Civil Service appointments, and the 
professional element keeps growing, 

11 The wealthy men who keep motor-cars, 
etc., bulk too largely in public esteem. But 
there is no doubt thai they do some mi^-hief, 
and that their way of looking at life spreads 
to others , who are injuriously affected. Even 
these cannot be characterized in the lump. 
Some are good fellows. Fashions vary ; 
sometimes there is a wave of drinking or 
gambling , but on the whole there is, in my 
opinion j rather an upward than a downward 
tendency even among these, 

" Then there is the influence of Oxford 
itself. The purely University influence is 
almost wholly to the good. The number of 
men who benefit by it is infinitely larger than 

From B Photaffrapk h v tt With <£ CU 

those who are harmed. A particular college 
may get out of hand for a time. Fashion is 
very strong, though transient. But things 
have a tendency to right themselves. 

" I have said nothing on a most important 
topic — the influence on the undergraduates 
of changes in society at large." 

Mr* Arthur Si dg wick, whose lectures on 
11 Virgil " used to be attended by every 
aspirant for classical honours, and who was 
for many years Fellow-Tutor of Corpus, 
replies that of late years he has not been in 
touch with University life, but as he still 
belongs to several undergraduate societies, 
and is a contributor to their magazines, his 
opinion is of the greatest value : — 

" First, then, the Laudator ttmporis acfi, 
better described as the Depredator of the 
Present — for that is his real aim and function 
— exists in all healthy and flourishing institu- 
tions, and must be expected, and allowed for, 
and disregarded, and, where possible, exter- 

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minated, like other frauds and parasites. 
He exists in Oxford, as in other institutions 
which flourish, and need not be further con- 
sidered. Though always a nuisance, he is 
not a danger. 

"As to your main question, about the 
alleged decadence of the undergraduate 
intellectually and physically , if I had to deal 
with it I should require to see the evidence. 
What experience of fact has the accuser had ? 
Is he going by the class-lists ? Or by the 
athletic reports ? Or by his friends and 
acquaintances ? Have Oxford men fallen 
off in the class-lists ? The calendar will 
answer that question. The sporting papers 
and records will answer the other. It is not 
a question of personal opinion, but of facts" 1 

Dr. MacaNj the Principal of University 
College, gives a most interesting reply to the 
question under discussion. He writes : — 

u In reply to your request for an expression 
of opinion on the relative merits of Oxford 
undergraduates in 1881 and in 1911,1 should 
be content to say that — 

" (1.) There are (I believe) about twice as 
many undergraduates in residence now as 
were in residence thirty years ago ; 

11 (2,} Then the majority of that smaller 
number were Pass men ; now the majority 
take Honour courses and schools ; 

Original from 

4 6 


pTtwt a rhutopruph by F. Frith nt Cv. 

" (3.) The number and variety of intel- 
lectual interests have increased very largely ; 
not merely by the multiplication of studies, 
linguistic and scientific (schools of English, 
of Modern Languages, Medicine, Engineering, 
Forestry, etc.), but by the growth of literary 
and similar societies among the under- 
graduates themselves ; 

" (4-) Similar developments and multiplica- 
tions have taken place in sports and exercises 
(the proportion of mere loafers now is small) ; 

"(5,) The advent of Colonial, American, 
and foreign students has stimulated the intel- 
lectual as well as the athletic interests of 

<f I would say, in summary, that while the 
picked students of thirty years ago — say the 
first hundred or hundred and fifty in each 
year — were just as good men, mentally and 
physically, as the cream of the present, 
the general average has risen, and the first 
thousand men in Oxford now are superior, 
certainly in education, and probably in 
mental and physical power, to the thousand 
thirty years ago/' 

Dr. Wright-Henderson, the Warden of 
Wadham College, who has had a long experi- 
ence, writes : — 

" I think that the Oxford undergraduate 
is better — not worse— than his predecessor 
of thirty, still more of forty, years ago, He 
is more virtuous because he is poorer ; more 
intellectual because he has to work harder 

and competition is more severe; better 
physically because more temperate — and 
because training is more sensible — not that 
he ' drank ' in former days, hut * wines ' 
and dinners at hotels were more frequent. 
If you look at Blackwmd's Magazine for 
March or April, 1910, you will find there 
what I wrote about the undergraduate. 
General questions are hard to answer, but 
my experience has been long and varied," 

Equally interesting are the replies from 

The Rev. Dr. S. A, Donaldson, the well- 
known Master of Magdalene College, writes : — 

" Speaking broadly and generally, I am 
not of opinion that the ' Cambridge 
undergraduate of to-day has, in comparison 
with his predecessor of twenty or thirty 
years ago, deteriorated mentally or physic- 
ally.* Intellectually he has a far wider range 
of subjects to study, and it may be said with 

fVmn a t'hutoy.uyh b# F. Frith t£ £&. 


From a Photograph % F. Frith £ Co. 

some truth that what he has gained in 
breadth he has lost in concentration ; on the 
other hand, the need for specialization in 
order to obtain success is a corrective for this 
danger for the abler men. Physically, I don't 
think there is deterioration at all— rather the 
reverse ; and with the cult of athletics so 
markedly in the ascendant lis it is to-day. I 
don't think there is danger on this score. 
Indeed, one might say that it threatens to be 
too absorbing a feature in its demands upon 
the time and attention of our undergraduates. 
A greater danger, in my opinion, lies both 
intellectually and physically in the tendency 
observable towards dilettantism and want of 
thoroughness, fostered by a too prevalent 
spirit of self-indulgence." 

The Rev, Dr. E. Atkinson, who has been 
Master of Clare College, Cambridge, since 
1856, writes : — 

" So far as I can judge, undergraduates 

Original from 



ci.akk mi.uir.R, camkiciu<;l. 

Pn>m a Fhvtvoraph by F. KrUA it Cv. 

at Cambridge are much the same now as 
they were thirty years ago. But 1 do not 
think that I have the best means of judging. 
My age renders me less able to go about and 
observe what is going on in town. If any- 
thing, fewer cases of misconduct on the part 
of undergraduates come before ine now than 
used to do in the earlier years of my master- 
ship. I have certainly no reason to think 
worse of undergraduates now than I did in 
older days." 

One of the Tutors of Trinity College, Cam- 
bridge, who prefers to remain anonymous, 
writes : — 

lt The recorded results of athletic sports 
seem to me to give no suggestion that the 
undergraduate of to-day is either worse or 
better physically than the undergraduate of 
twenty-five years ago, and I can say with 
some confidence that no striking change in 
mental capacity has been noticed here over 
that period, 

" The only other important change during 
the period which I can mention without going 
into details is the improvement in habits of 
diet. There is no doubt that the diet of the 
undergraduate is becoming lighter and more 

Frvtoi a f'hvtwjmjth b» Phelockrvm Co 

wholesome, and there is also no doubt that 
there has been an enormous decrease in the 
consumption of alcohol*'* 

Mr. R. F. Scott, Vice-Chancellor of the 
University of Cambridge, sends the following 
most interesting reply :■ — 

M I find it difficuH to answer such a question* 
Deterioration means, I suppose, a falling- off 
from some standard, What standard ? 

" I have the best of reasons for believing 
that when I was an undergraduate, nearly 
forty years ago T some of my seniors held thai 
deterioration was lamentably apparent among 
us youngsters. We, on the contrary, were 
stoutly of opinion that we compared very 
favourably with those of our seniors with 
whom we had the opportunity of contrasting 
ourselves* The fact is, the body of under- 
graduates at any given time consists of 
honest young men, representative of the 
country at large, with the aims and ideals 
of their time* 

" I believe that the undergraduates of the 
present day can challenge comparison with 
those of any other time. I believe them to 
be as a body harder working* vastly more 
temperate, in matters of religion quite as 
much in earnest as their predecessors. If I 
were to criticize them, it would be to say 

by Google 

st* joiin's college, Cambridge. 

ffain « Photograph by Photochrom Co. 

that they are in some things more apt to 
seek advice of their seniors and to rely on 
them. That is, perhaps, comparing them 
with myself ; it may be ' deterioration J — I 
should hesitate to describe it as such. Dete- 
rioration sounds well ; Amelioration sounds 
better and is quite as long— let us use it," 

Dr. M. R, J ames f the Master of King's 
College, Cambridge, writes : — 

" Your letter has followed me about for 
some time, and I have at last an opportunity 
of answering it, I hope my reply will not 
reach you too late. 

" In considering the question you have put 
to me ? two factors at least have to be taken 
into account. First, the number of under- 
graduates has largely increased during the 
last twenty to thirty years. Secondly, they 
are now drawn from a less limited area, 
geographically and socially, than formerly. 
Not that there have not always been men of 
all classes receiving education at Cambridge ; 
but nowadays the proportion of students 
whose parents do not belong to the greater 
professions (so-called) is much larger than it 
was. Allowing for this, and realizing that 
many of our men come from poor and humble 
Original from 



homes, I yet cannot see that the physique 
of the whole body has been unfavourably 
affected. It is a continual surprise and 
pleasure to see what a fine lot, physically 
considered, they are when gathered in any 
numbers. Their .habits, too, I consider have 
changed for the better. Very many of thern 
have to consider narrowly their expenditure, 
and the standard of living is more modest than 
it was. Many are non-smokers (which } in 
my eyes, is no particular recommendation !) 
and many are teetotallers (which is probably 
an advantage), I cannot, in short, say that 
I think they have deteriorated physically. 
Have they done so mentally ? Probably the 
added numbers have had more effect in this 
direction, The pro- 
portion of men of 
average intellect — of 
men who take a low 
second or a third class 
in their tripos— is very 
likely largiT, Compari- 
sons and statistics 
based on the exami- 
nation lists of the 
beginning and end of 
your period are likely 
to be fallacious, and a 
principal reason for 
this is that within the last twenty to thirty 
years the range of studies has been 
immensely widened, and that some of the 
modern triposes are among the most popular. 
Moreover, the older triposes have been 
so remodelled and divided that without inti- 
mate knowledge of their working it is very 
difficult to draw right inferences from the 
lists* However, study of examination lists 
would, in any case, be a poor way of arriving 
at the truth. One point you would wish to 
put would doubtless be whether the craze 
for athletics tends, to put intellectual interests 
into the background. To this question I 
should answer ' No.' The position of the 
athlete at the University is widely different 
from that which he held at his school. To be 
successful in games is naturally a passport of 
some value at the University — but it does 
not take a man nearly so far. It introduces 
r him to a set, not to universal popularity. 
The man whose interests are intellectual can 
always find a niche, and if he be otherwise 
acceptable will encounter no sort of obstacle 
in the fact that he plays no games. 

" To the man of ability more avenues are 
Open now, and more men go out from the 
University to take up business careers of 
different sorts. In fact, the danger is that 

Frwn a PhufaffrntA by PtuAdiehnni Co. 

by Google 

too few really able men will consent to take 
up academic work, of which the monetary 
rewards are modesty to say the least. 

"There is no doubt that the intellectual 
interests of undergraduates are strong and 
varied. They are naturally attracted now 
by political and social questions, and there is 
much taking up of extreme opinions. As 
always , they are apt to be fascinated by what 
is newest in literature and art. But whether 
their taste in these matters is such as I approve 
or not, the fact remains that they are interested; 
they have a passion for forming societies for 
discussion and reading of papers, and they 
will go in large numbers to hear lectures on 
burning questions of the day. My doubt 

(and it is one 
which it would be 
extremely difficult to 
solve) is whether 
the number of not- 
brilliant men has in- 
creased in a higher 
proportion than that 
of the brilliant. To 
put it bluntly, I feel 
sure that there are 
as many brilliant 
men now as there 
were twenty years 
ago ; the question is, whether there are more 
stupid ones. The probability is, one must sup- 
pose, that that is the case* My own feeling is 
that, if so, the proportional increase is a very 
small one. In my own college I know many 
men who are good at something, and few who 
are entirely undistinguished ; but it must 
be remembered that my college does not 
admit c poll ' men ; and I see too few of 
these to be able to generalize about them/ 1 

On the whole the consensus of opinion 
of those whose position and experience best 
qualify them to judge would seem to be that 
the average undergraduate is both physically, 
intellectually, and morally a better man than 
his predecessor of twenty or thirty years 
ago. The numbers have nearly doubled, 
the drinking has decreased, the number of 
those who take Honours instead of Pass 
degrees has very largely increased, and the 
standard of the different schools is higher, 
while at the same time the records for ail 
University athletics are better than those of 
twenty years ago. We can, therefore, rest 
in hope that the ancient Universities, nurses 
of so many famous Englishmen, may for 
many years continue the good work for 
Church and State, 

Original from 

An Air from Verdi. 


Illustrated by ^IV\ R* S. Stott. 

FTER the manager had said 
what he had to say, and 
Edward Bryan had left the 
theatre j he found exactly 
eighteenpence and a half- 
penny in his pocket j and he 
was, it seemed, a great deal 
better off than many others of the stranded 
company* Owing to the strikes in Liverpool 
there had been no money coming into the 
treasury for full ten days, and the play had 
been doing badly for some time, even before 
the final disaster, which broke the manager 
and made him cry like a child. 

a Eighteenpence and a halfpenny ! ** said 
Bryan ; " and a silver watch ! " 

He walked along the deserted streets in a 
dream 3 fingering the money in his pocket. 
He owed his landlady at least sixteen shillings, 
and his wife, who had remained behind at 
Derby because she was ill, must need by now 
two pounds or more, to say nothing of what 
she owed the doctor and the chemist To get 
bark to her and take her and the child to 
London, where the only chance of work lay, 
would cost another two pounds at least, 

"I want five pounds — five pounds!'* said 
Bryan. " Eighteenpence and a halfpenny I 
And & small silver watch ! " 

Though such consciousness is no proof that 
a man has any gifts, yet he was conscious of 
ability. It was not only that he himself 
thought so ; his perceptions were sharpened 
and reinforced by the beliefs of others. And 
this was the result : eighteen pence-halfpenny 
and a silver watch ! 

" And old Tasker has thousands, thousands, 
thousands," said Bryan, as he walked on, 
" Thousands, and eighteenpence-halfpenny 
and a silver watch ! He'll leave me 

Yet Simon Tasker was his mother's brother. 
He lent money, but lent none where it would 
not grow and flower in interest. 

"He wouldn't give away etghteenpence- 
half penny/' said Bryan, " And yet " 

Bryan, truly, had never asked him for any 
help since he went on the stage against the 
old man's wish. For old Tasker, though he 

Digitized by GoOgle 

was no more than a common usurer and 
unscrupulous and ruthless in his dealings, 
had a strange puritanic hatred of the stage. 

" IVe never asked him for eighteenpence/' 
said Bryan, "or a halfpenny," 

He came to the house where he lived and, 
entering with his key, went into his bed' 
sitting-room, which was in the disorder 
characteristic of poor-class theatrical lodgings, 
where service is scant v and overworked- He 
rang the bell and Mrs. Curtain,, who expected 
or hoped to .get some money from him, 
answered it herself. But whfen she saw him 
she knew better, 

"Then it's bad luck, Mr. Bryan?" she 

11 The worst," said Bryan, with both hands 
working oddly. " We're broke, the com- 
pany's broke, and the manager cried." 

" Cried ?" she asked. 

** Like a baby/' said Bryan, " So IVe 
eighteenpence-half penny. And this small 
silver watch." 

He took it out of his pocket and looked at 
it, and Mrs. Curtain sat down. 

" Don't go on so," she said ; " you make me 
nervous. Is there anyone you can borrow 
from ? " 

" Not in Liverpool ; and things are pretty 
bad in town too," said the actor. " IVe 
only one relation in the w x orld, and he wouldn't 
lend me eighteen pence-halfpenny. I wonder 
what my wife will do?" 

" Don't go on so/' said his landlady ; " you 
make me that nervous I don't know where 
I am, I'm a poor woman, and to lose sixteen 
bob is "tad.** 

" I'll leave my things with you," said 
Bryan, li and I'll go to London and see if my 
uncle will do anything. When I tell him 
Edie and the kid are ill in Derby, don't you 
think he might do something Mrs. Curtain ? " 

But Mrs. Curtain shook her head. 

(E Bless the man, how do I know ? " she 
asked, " Them as 'asn't would, and them as 
J as won't. That's my experience. But 'ow 
will you get to London ? " 

"I— I don't know/ 1 said Bryan. "Yes, 
I do. I'll pawn this silver watch," 




Mrs. Curtain shook her head and went 
away downstairs and made him some tea. 

" The man's only a child, as most play- 
actors are," she said, " but he's a good boy, 
and I won't be 'ard on him." 

And after tea he went out to pawn his 
watch. He got nineteen shillings on it 
because he knew the pawnbroker. If he 
hadn't known him he might have got a pound. 
But nineteen shillings was half a crown over 
the fare, so he now had four shillings and a 
halfpenny to draw on. Without going back 
to his room, he went to the station and waited 
for a train. It was supposed to start at mid- 
night, but at twelve o'clock he was told that 
it wouldn't go till the morning at eight, for 
the whole system was still disarranged. So 
he walked back to his room and found Mrs. 
Curtain glad to see him sober. For she knew 
what poor actors are when the ghost doesn't 
walk, and what usually happens when they 
pawn their watches. She saw him into bed 
and promised to call him at seven. And at 
nine o'clock the train actually left Liverpool 
and got thirty miles by noon. His fellow- 
passengers grew angry and again resigned, 
and ended in that odd joviality which comes 
to relieve mankind when things, having 
ceased to be a mere joke, show themselves 
at last, as all life does, in the shape of a pre- 
posterous and gigantic jest. Bryan spoke 
with them and remembered nothing of what 
he said. He fell back into complete reverie 
and was unconscious of their presence. A 
man gave him a sandwich with the air of one 
who throws all he possesses into the common 
stock. And two hours afterwards Bryan 
said : — 

" Thank you for that sandwich ! " 

" What sandwich ? " asked the other. 

And Bryan shook his head, and said he 
thought he had just eaten a sandwich. 

" That was two hours ago," said the giver. 

" Two hours ! " said Bryan. " Two hours ! 
I beg your pardon." 

He relapsed into silence ; but at times his 
lips moved. He had the actor's mobile face, 
but it was also acute and sensitive. His 
thoughts played upon it perpetually, for he 
went through a hundred scenes in London 
before he got there. Perhaps Poole could 
lend him some money. Poole was doing a 
sketch at the Met. Or Paddy Jones, who 
often had money got no one knew how, 
might be flush. Then he saw himself at his 
uncle's door. They talked in his mind. The 
old man was savage ; then he relented. 
Bryan's mind built up a scene, partly sug- 
gested by a foolish melodrama in which he 

Digitized by d 

had played a repentant miser of a sudden 
charitably prodigal. His uncle bestowed a 
handful of notes on him and called him 
" my dear boy." Then — then old Simon did 
exactly the opposite — refused him a penny 
and called him an infernal beggar. Bryan 
crawled (in his mind) down the stairs with 
his head bent, blind with rage. " I could 
kill him," said Bryan. He ground his teeth. 
The power of rage in him amazed his self- 
control. At times a man digs deep into the 
foundations of his heart, and finds terrible 
graves there and awful resurrections. He 
saw the old man's room again, and heard him 
snarl, heard himself answer in a voice he 
didn't know, a dreadful, hoarse voice. He 
put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a 
pistol. That was another theatrical scene of 
last year. He pulled the trigger, and saw 
his uncle on the floor, wriggling in the same 
fantastic, theatrical way that Ned Burke 
wriggled and died. Ned Burke had played 
the villain. What a good chap he was, 
though he couldn't act for sour apples 1 
Edith liked Ned Burke ; he was so kind and 
so funny. Yet he always played bad old 
men. " I'll kill him if he doesn't help me," 
said Bryan's mind, going back to his uncle. 
But of course he would. No man on earth 
could hear Bryan's story and refuse some 
help. He seemed to hear old Simon say, 
" You're a fool ; but if I must, I must. 
Here's ten pounds." 

So Bryan played within himself on those 
boards which are never empty, for thought 
succeeds thought, sleep or awake, and their 
insistent continuity is life. For some their 
play is mean and poor, but others live 
tragically and yet lapse into mad burlesque, 
and that again becomes sweet and gentle. 
So Bryan lived and spent long years of peace 
with Edie in that train. And yet he was 
hung for murder, and made a vain but 
powerful defence. And, being hanged, he 
yet survived and became a great actor. And 
he told the audience who cheered him the 
day he was knighted about the time when he 
had only eighteenpence-halfpenny and a 
small silver watch, and one of the audience 
said, " Euston at last, thank Heaven ! " 

When he got out at Euston with four 
shillings and a halfpenny in his pocket he 
walked down to the Strand. It was seven 
o'clock, and the sun was still powerful, so that 
he sweated as he walked. But he was in a 
dream, and only partly waked out of it when 
he pet an old actor known as " Teaspoons," 
on account of some legend reflecting more on 
his honesty than his ingenuity about the time 

U 1 1 I U I M ' 2* I I 




that Charles James Mathews was at the top 
of his reputation. They stood and talked 
together, and Bryan told him what had hap- 
pened in Liverpool, and what he had come 
down to ; and " Teaspoons " hastened to say 
that he, too, was dead broke, for fear Bryan 
might ask for half a crown on account of 
seven-and-sixpence he owed the younger man. 
Whether it was true or not, it made Bryan 
laugh oddly. 

He said, " Where's Paddy Jones ? " 

" Teaspoons " knew where everyone in the 
profession could be found. 

" In Glasgow. But the show's a frost," 
said old " Teaspoons." 

So Paddy Jones couldn't help. He asked 
about half-a-dozen others. One was in 
Dublin, one was in Holloway, one in hospital. 
Two of the others had gone with a company 
to Australia, and the sixth was " on his 

" And Poole ? " asked Bryan. 

" He's at the Met. The show's comin' off 
on Saturday," said " Teaspoons." " A good 
thing too, or the Lisson Grove boys will 
wreck the place. So long ! Wish you 
luck ! " 

He shuffled off, and turning round saw 
that Bryan went east along the Strand. 
When he was sure his friend would not see 
him, he went into the Bodega and had two 
drinks, feeling very sorry that he could not 
afford to ask poor Bryan to have one. 

And presently Bryan found himself in the 
cool shadow of the Temple, and he kept on 
saying to himself, apropos of nothing actually 
in his mind, " They have made my Temple 
a den of thieves." He passed the staircase 
at the top of which his uncle lived. He had 
occupied the same chambers for nearly 
thirty years, and rarely left them. Not once 
had he gone abroad ; he loved nothing, it 
seemed, but money. Yet in his room was 
an old violin, which he had played on with 
some promise of skill in his boyhood. Once 
the old man explained to his nephew why he 
had practically ceased to play it and why 
he kept it. 

" It made me what I am," said the old 
man. " I met someone once who could play 
it beautifully, and he was very poor. That 
made me think, and I put it away. The 
next week I made five shillings more than I 
needed to spend, and I did it in the time I 
used for playing. And next week I had 
saved ten shillings. If I hadn't met that 
poor fool of a musician, I might have been 
one myself." 

And Bryan had shivered tp hear him talk 

Digitized by GOOQIC 

like that. For at times, when the old usurer 
thought of his early youth, he had a fine face, 
keen and almost delicate ; but that look 
passed like a cloud in a brass sky, and left 
him hard and eager and esurient, protesting 
poverty and very bitter against the poor. 
And especially he loathed musicians. Per- 
haps he sometimes thought of music still. 
There were even yet times that he played a 
little. He said it helped now, when it 
couldn't hinder. 

It was eight o'clock before Bryan made up 
his mind to speak to his uncle and ask assist- 
ance. For his gorge rose against it and his 
heart was sick. But for that purpose he had 
come, and Edith was in Derby alone and ill 
and waiting, and there was no one else in 
London but Poole, always kind and always 
nearly broken, who could help him. 

So. at last he climbed the bitter stairs. He 
had not climbed them since he had become an 
actor, for then his uncle h^d said things not 
easy to forgive, wishing to see him no more, 
for fear he should want iyioney. And now 
Bryan came to ask it, and his heart was sick 
within him, and he raged against the man even 
before he was refused help. But still he went 
up, driven in a dream. He felt his mind had 
not been awake since old Smith cried on the 
stage because he had no money. It was a 
hideous world, a nightmare of a world, and 
money ruled it, and the power of money, and 
those who held it held power, and those who 
were powerful became cruel. 

And even as he stood outside his uncle's 
door he heard its power and cruelty. For the 
door was ajar and he heard voices inside. 
He recognized the thinnish, ageing pipe of 
Simon Tasker, but the other voice was strange 
to him and had a Scottish accent. He heard 
the Scotsman speak first. 

11 For God's sake, Mr. Tasker ■" 

There was agony in the man's voice. But 
Tasker's voice was cold, the voice of conscious 
power. Bryan knew it. The man loved 
power and had grown cruel. There would 
be an odd little smile upon his mouth as he 

" You've had your full time. The money 
to-morrow, please." 

Bryan heard a groan and then the voice 
spoke rapidly — urgently : — 

" Don't you understand this means ruin ? 
My wife and children will be in the street. 
Everyone will come down on me, sir. Oh, 
give me time, a month, to let things mature. 
They'll come right; I know it, I know it. 
The business I've built up and put all my 
money and my life intQ ! " 

I Q I I I _' I 1 1 




But Tasker answered : " I've no more to say." 

"My God!" said the other man; "my 

Bryan had heard that said upon the stage. 
His artistic consciousness seized on the 
peculiar intonation now with a dreadful 
feeling of satisfaction. That was the right 
way to say it. 

"ril— I'll say it that way next time," 
said Bryan. But he turned and ran down- 
stairs, choking. He went lightly and heard 
the other man stumble, as if he were blind. 
Bryan stayed outside and saw him go past. 
The man's face was dreadful ; drawn, hag- 
gard, and fierce. All possibilities were in it. 
His skin was a greyish blue. He showed his 
teeth oddly. His hands were clenched. He 
never noticed Bryan. 

" So goes murder ! " said Bryan. He 
writhed his own mobile face into the same 
demoniac mask and felt his lips go back, his 
nails almost enter his palms. His muscles 
arched and ridged themselves, and hate grew 
in him out of the shape he gave it. He 
grasped the boiling mind of the man he 
dreadfully and eagerly mimicked, and his 
own mind seemed to cry aloud for Vengeance 
and for time out of eternity. 

And then above him, and out of the window 
of the upper story, he heard the thin and 
reedy wail of the violin. 

The air that the moneylender played was 
out of an old and forgotten early failure by 
Verdi. Perhaps not ten men in England knew 
its name: " Un Giorno di Regno." Once 
his uncle had told Bryan that he only played 
when he had done a good stroke of business, 
when things went very well, when he was 

" He's happy, then ! " said Bryan. He 
walked a little way till he lost the poor, 
tremulous sounds made by a man who even 
yet had not wholly choked the life out of the 
music in him. It survived like a worm-eaten 
flower on a worn-out rose-tree that cumbered 
the ground. Did he never think of death ? 
But all passions are fences against the thought 
of it, and avarice drugs a man to the last. 

Bryan found himself again upon the stairs. 
It seemed to him that he woke and knew that 
he was half-way up. He said, " I'm going to 
beg— to beg ! " And he added, " I — I could 
kill him. Or myself ! " So could the man he 
had seen come out ; the poor wretch he had 
taken as a model for some future chance 
tragedy of the stage. 

He knocked at the door and wondered to 
find it ajar. Had he been his uncle he would 
have kept it closed, against the chances of 

by \j 



fate. But avarice deafens a man to the rising 
pipe of death, and power makes him careless 
as it grows. He heard old Simon rise and 
shuffle in slippered feet across the uneven 
floor. By now it was nearly dark inside ; 
though there was still a glow in the western 
sky, it did not penetrate there. A gas-jet 
burned in the passage. It lighted the old 
man's face as he opened the door wide. In 
its flickering, uncertain light Bryan saw only 
the bigger planes of the usurer's face, and 
thought it a fine head, after all. But what 
Bryan saw was what the old man might have 
been. The smaller marks and wrinkles were 
what some little seed of evil had made him. 

" Who are you ? " he asked ; and Bryan 
answered with a dry tongue : — 

" I'm Ned Bryan, uncle." 

He was respectably dressed and had no 
suppliant aspect. There was at the bottom 
of Bryan something hard. Though he felt 
a little sick his muscles were on a stretch, 
and he held his head high during a moment's 
doubtful pause. 

" Come in," said the man who lent money 
where it would grow. 

And Bryan entered. As he followed his 
uncle down the passage he noted etchings on 
the wall that he remembered. Two were 
Meryon's, grim and slaughterous, but a good 
investment. Tasker had got them from a 
client for a fortnight's grace. He kept them 
because he believed their annual increment 
in the market outweighed even a usurer's 
common interest on their present value. 

The inner room was as he remembered it, 
save for one or two pictures and two won- 
derful blue Chinese jars. They had their 
history. Save for a small set of four Chippen- 
dale chairs, three of them covered with litter, 
the furniture was poor and soulless. In the 
centre, or rather to the left, was a big roll-top 
desk, filled with papers, and now open. The 
fireplace was behind it, a broken-springed 
chair stood by the fender. The table was 
of deal and might have come from a kitchen. 
Tea-things stood on it, and among them lay 
the open case of the violin, with the bow 
across the case. Before old Tasker turned he 
shut down the roll-top desk. The action was 
ominous to Bryan ; he raised his eyebrows 
and frowned. 

11 1— I could kill him," said Bryan. For 
now he saw in the better light the life-long 
script of cruelty and meanness upon a face 
which, outside, had reminded him of his 
mother's, dear and dead long ago. 

" Sit down," said Tasker. And Bryan sat 
in the only empty Chippendale chair. 




* - It's a long time since I saw you/' said 
the old man. 

" Years," replied Bryan, with a dry throat. 

" Glad to see you looking so respectable. 
And I heard you were married/' said old 

Bryan's mind followed him quickly. He 
understood why 
he said these 
things. He ex- 
pected more, and 
it came, 

" Ah, and I'm 
not doin* so 
well/ 3 said his 
uncle, quickly. 
" Things are very 
bad — very bad ; 
couldn't be 
worsej young 
man, couldn*t be 

The open violin 
said he lied, and 
Bryan's eyes 
turned to it. The 
old man was as 
quick as he was. 

"The same 
old violin/' he 
said ; " it's not 
worth selling. 
I've not played 
on it since you 
heard me," 

That was true 
enough, though 
he meant to lie. 
Bryan heard 
again its thin 
wail of triumph 
and saw the 
twisted and 
abhorrent mask 
of the man who 
was his uncle's 
debtor and had 
sought him at 
home to beg for 
the mercy of 
time. Bryan could not speak, though he 
tried. His voice dried in his throat ; fear 
and hatred oppressed him. Never had he 
known that he possessed such hate within 
him or the power of violence. But these 
things no man knows till the hour comes* 

There was a little moment in him as if he 
lost consciousness or as if he dreamed. But 
he never lost it and did not dream. Only an 

abyss opened and the moment's sight of it 
seemed an eternity. He heard his own voice 
as of another speaking. His double con- 
sciousness, the gift of the artist, came back 
to him. He applauded the way he spoke, 
the manner of his speaking, its passion. His 
inner soul stood at the wings of his mind's 


stage and applauded. For Bryan knew he 
was telling his story, and telling it wonder- 
fully. He heard again of the disastrous time 
when his wife fell ill, when she and the child 
had to remain behind ; the wild days at 
Liverpool, when trouble piled itself on trouble. 
With a laugh which was half a cry and half a 
sob, he drew his old landlady, and then said, 
soberly, u EiglUecn pence-half penny and a 




silver watch ! " He told the silent old man 
of his search for friends, of the played-out 
old actor " Teaspoons " who lived on alms. 
And then he asked for help, for a little help, 
for a very little help, and his mind said, as 
he asked, " Oh, you rich old devil, if you 
don't help me Fll kill you, kill you, kill you ! " 

But the old man would not. He made no " 
professions, no excuses, but stood by the 
letter of the word he spoke when Bryan went 
upon the stage. He spoke of it with an odd 
puritanic horror. But not all the real or 
imagined licence of the stage could balance 
in the scales of justice the licence he gave to 
avarice. Yet so he justified himself, for all 
men must, and his justification was as abso- 
lute as his soul was dead. 

And Bryan begged no more. He sat for a 
moment holding his elbow in his hand. He 
tapped his cheek with his fingers. He kept 
his eyes fixed upon the old violin. The case 
seemed a kind of coffin to keep a dead little 
soul in. He spoke suddenly. 

" You lied to me just now. You played 
that fiddle this evening." 

The old man glared at him. 

" Lied ? " 

Bryan nodded. 

" Played it in — in triumph. Being happy ! 
As you once told me. Happy ! My God ! " 

He rose and turned away. Suddenly he 
turned back. 

" How long will you live, uncle ? " he 
asked, as if in mere curiosity. And Simon 
Tasker flinched. 

" Leave my rooms," he said. " And when 
I'm dead you'll get nothing — nothing — not a 

" Take it to the grave with you," said Bryan. 

Simon tapped his shut desk. 

" I made my will when you and I parted, 
boy," he said, hoarsely. " I've left it all to 
the richest man I know." 

Bryan went to the door and turned again, 
looking about the room curiously. 

" A man like you ought to be killed," he 
said, not knowing how the words came or 
from what depths they rose. But he seemed 
to know that other folks might be saying the 
same thing. He spoke aloud, continuing his 
thoughts. " That poor Scotsman, for in- 
stance," he said, suddenly. And then he 
shook his head and went, leaving his uncle 
standing. And as Bryan went down the 
stairs he said : — 

"If I'd had something in my hand I — I 
think I could have killed him ! " 

More intensely than ever the sense that he 
was in a dream oppressed and at the same time 

Digitized by Ot 

relieved him. The passers-by were shadows, 
the crowded streets the streets of a visionary 
city. And not even when a sudden and 
clamorous hunger assailed him did he truly 
wake. But he had not eaten since the morn- 
ing, and in his pockets he still had four shillings 
and a halfpenny. He went into a mean eat- 
ing-house and ate. But he left half they gave 
him on his plate. 

" I must go and see Poole — good old Poole," 
he said. And he walked all the way to 
Edgware Road without any sense of fatigue. 
It seemed strange to him that he was not 
tired. But it was not strange. The passions 
within him drugged his nerves ; their physical 
results were those of auto-intoxication. He 
viewed things clearly as he thought, and 
really saw the world in no perspective, no 
actual relations. So a man might see nature 
as a flat pattern, strangely coloured, without 
distances. For that was how fatigue took 
him. He walked for a mile quite calmly ; 
then he was conscious of the beating of his 
heart — a thing he had never noticed before. 
It puzzled him, and he cursed the old man 
suddenly out aloud, and found that he was in 
Hyde Park ; and a passer-by heard him and 
was alarmed, and hurried away. 

" He thinks I'm mad," said Bryan. It 
was a peculiarly ludicrous idea, and he 
laughed aloud. 

" I never was saner," he said. But those 
who know might not have agreed with him. 

He walked on and crossed the traffic at the 
Sfarble Arch easily. But he did not know 
he crossed it, or that he helped an old woman 
to cross. He became conscious of the objec- 
tive world, that visible, sonorous projection 
of a dream, outside a pawnbroker's shop. 
There were several revolvers in the window. 
He inspected them curiously. He had never 
used one satfe with blank cartridge on the 
stage. Once in a melodrama he had been 
supposed to kill someone. He disliked the 
actor very much, but when he shot at him he 
actually hated the man, for his fictitious 
dramatic hatred was added to amazingly. 

" I could kill my uncle," he said. " Why 
won't he help ? It's— it's cruel ! " 

He went on and turned to look back at the 
shop-window. By it there was standing a 
figure he seemed to know. 

"It's like that— that Scotsman," said 

He rubbed his eyes and looked again. No 
man was there ; he had disappeared suddenly. 
Yet he could not have gone in so short a 
space of time. Bryan walked back to the 
shop and stared in. He saw no one ; but 

u I I I ■_' I I I 




he saw himself in a mirror ^ and didn't know 
his face. 

" That's me ! " he said- " I— I wonder if 

it is ? - 

He came at last to the Metropolitan, and 
went round to the stage- door by the narrow, 
squeezed little way that runs down from 
Edgware Road to the side of the house. The 
stage-doorkeeper took his name in to Poole, 
and after a very long time, as Bryan thought, 

Poole was ready to give away his very head, 
and Bryan knew that if anyone could help 
him 3 Jack Poole was the man. 

" Good old Jack ! Ji said Bryan, queerly. 

11 What's wrong ? " asked Poole. He was 
shortsighted, and the light was poor ; but he 
had the quickest ear, 

"I'll tell you/' said Bryan. And as he 
told him he kept on thinking of a hitter 
story, in which a man turned an unfortunate 


told him Mr, Poole would see him. He found 
the actor in a small, gas-lit dungeon. Poole, 
in his drawers and socks, was putting the 
last touches of paint on his face. 

" Dear old man ! " said Poole, jovially. 
He always was jovial, even if he hadn't a 
penny piece to jingle on the door-step of an 
fingry landlady to whom he owed money. 

Digitized by \jt 

friend out of his house on the ground that the 

recital of such miseries broke his heart. But 

Pnole listened with a concerned face ; and 

when he heard abcut old Tasker he swore 


(l If he was my uncle I'd murder him/* 

said Poole ; M and, oh, my dear old chap, 

Vxn so sorry. I've not sixpence in the world, 
Original from r 




And this blighted sketch is coming off to- 
morrow. Times are rotten — fairly rotten." 

" Then you — you can't help me, old boy ? " 
asked Bryan, quietly. 

" Ab-so-loot-ly imposs," said Poole. " I've 
drawn all I am to get here, and I've pawned 
my watch." 

" So have I," said Bryan. 

There was a knock at the door. 

" Come in," said Poole, and the actress 
who was playing with him put her head in. 

" Hurry up, Jack," she said. " Do you 
want to be murdered in the Edgware Road 
for keeping the nobility of Lisson Grove 
waiting ? " 

She nodded in a friendly manner to Bryan, 
who didn't know her, and withdrew. Poole 
hurried into his clothes. As he finished the 
call-boy knocked. 

" Look here," said Poole, " come and see 
me to-morrow in my digs. I'll try and raise 
the wind. And take this and pop it." 

He rushed to his bag, took out a revolver, 
and thrust it into Bryan's hand. 

" It's a good gun," he said — " a real good 
*un. You'll raise ten bob on it for the missus. 
See if it's loaded ! So long, if you can't 
wait ! " 

And he went out of the .door with a rush 
that made scraps of paper on the floor leap 
and swirl. And Bryan sat there with the 
shining weapon in his hand. 

The sanest man alive can be driven mad 
by calculated tortures, for all sanity is but 
resistance to stresses. And Bryan was an 
artist, one of those who live by the natural 
ease with which they register, even as they 
resent and fear them, the impressions of life 
and art. It seemed to him that something 
cracked in him. Or was it outside ? Some- 
thing giving way which held him ? He looked 
at the revolver, and saw that it was loaded, not 
with blank, but with ball, cartridge ; and he 
wondered what Poole had been playing in 
that needed lead. It might have been no 
play, but actual tragedy. The cheerfullest 
man he knew had shot himself. 

" I — I feel free," said Bryan. There is 
peace in the centre of a cyclone. 

Conversion, when it comes suddenly for 
good, is a shifting of a man's whole point of 
view — a sudden change of psychic orientation. 
The under-mind comes uppermost ; the old 
self goes under. But conversion can be for 
evil ; for the gentlest may be unstable, and 
beneath the surface of the best lie things 
unutterable. In them is the past ; the deeds 
of ancestral devils yet survive in subdued 
but not wholly conquered passions. 

" I'll kill him ! " said Bryan. 

He walked across the park, and as folks 
passed, hurrying folks or quiet lovers, he 
said, " They don't understand life." For he 
understood it now, and had a clear view, a 
mission, a task entrusted to him. He felt 
as those feel who have attained something of 
the mystic ecstasy. His mind seemed won- 
derfully clear and steady. It burnt like a 
blow-pipe flame ; things fused in it. He was 
certain he was doing right. Everyone would 
understand it, if they ever found out. Yet 
they would not find out. In sanity he was 
peculiarly simple, thoughtful of others, 
careless of himself ; but now he found within 
him extraordinary cunning, or what he, 
almost proudly, thought such. He took 
everything into consideration. No one would 
suspect him. They would suspect some client, 
when it came out that this quiet old man in 
the Temple was a moneylender. They would 
probably discover all about that Scotsman 
and suspect him, and perhaps arrest him. 
The man could easily prove his innocence. 

" Poor devil ! " said Bryan. 

He meant to take money, a little money, 
not very much, but perhaps as much as old 
.Simon ought to have lent him. Probably 
ten pounds or twenty. 

" I shall walk into the Temple whistling 
cheerfully," he said, " in case anyone notices 
me. Twenty pounds will be enough. He 
ought to have lent it me." 

He went into the Temple from the Embank- 
ment. Before he did so he lingered a moment 
by the river, and saw how beautiful it was. 
That surprised him, and when he turned 
away he felt as if part of himself stayed there, 
looking, looking. He turned round to see, 
and shook his head. He went across the road 

" I said I'd go in whistling. What shall 
I whistle ? Oh, I'll whistle what he played." 

That air from " Un Giorno di Regno " 
was bitten into his brain, but came with 
difficulty to his dry lips. But he moistened 
them and whistled. He felt as if he were 
making an entrance on the stage. Nothing 
was quite real. The night atmosphere 
seemed peculiarly theatrical. He stepped 
inside the gate and pulled at his collar. That 
was a little mannerism of his, and he knew it. 
Then he said : — 

" Why, I always hated him ! He was very 
unkind to mother." 

There are depths and graves in the human 

mind. Out of them come ghosts. He 

remembered his uncle coming to see his 

mother when he was only a child. Simon 

Original fronn 




made his mother cry, and Bryan remembered 
that he had said with the passion of a child^ 
*' Til kill him when I'm a man ! " 

He laughed, and came to the entrance of 
the court where the old man lived. 

" Now he — lives here/ 1 said Bryan 3 with 
a satiric twist of 
his face, 

A gas - lamp 
burnt in the 
middle of the 
court and cast a 
feeble light. 
Through the arch- 
way at the end 
he saw people 
pass. A man 
came out of the 
stairway leading 
to his uncle's 
chambers, and, 
turning very 
abruptly j went 
out of the far 
archway. Bryan 
saw him and did 
not see him. But 
half-way up the 
stairs he said, 
u He was rather 
like that Scots- 
m a n ! Poor 
devil, poor ctevil!" 
He was extra- 
ordinarily sorry 
for that Scots- 
man , amazingly 
sorry for him. He 
made up a little 
tale about him 
and his business, 
and his wife and 
children. He 
wondered what 
the business was. 
Do Scotsmen go 
in for any par- 
ticular business ? 
And why had 
he failed ? They 
usually suc- 
ceeded, he thought. But all the time he 
went upstairs steadily and came to the door. 
The outer one was open. A :d so was the 
inner one, 

" I thought that silly of him," said Bryan, 
He walked in. The sitting-room door was 
shut, No, it was not shut. He saw the 
window there and lights through it from some 

other chambers. The old man had no light 
going, then* 

"Miser!" said Bryan. He expected to 
hear his uncle's voice. He went back lightly 
and shut the front door. Then he went in 
again and came to the sitting-room door. In 


his hand was the revolver, though he did not 
recollect taking it from his pocket. He 
thought he heard a little noise from the bed- 
room. It reminded him of the noise a man 
makes cleaning his teeth. Then he kicked 
against something on the floor, and knew what 
it was. It was the violin ! A sudden coldness 
came over him ; he sweated ice, 




" The violin ! " 

He did not know why that made him get so 
cold. And then he was aware of an extra- 
ordinary confusion in the room. He saw some 
sparks in the empty fireplace, sparks running 
along the edge of a piece of paper, the sparks 
which children call the congregation, the 
parson, and the clerk. A chair was upset ; 
Bryan breathed heavily. He took out a 
match and struck it. The desk was open, 
some of its contents lay on the floor. The 
little table by the window was upset. 

" Oh, my God ! " said Bryan. But he saw 
no one. The bedroom door was shut.- Old 
Simon had stopped cleaning his teeth. What 
— what did it mean ? 

In his mind he stood again in the court 
below, and saw a man come out of the stair- 
way, a man like the Scotsman whose 
tortured face he had seen and mimicked. 

" Ah ! " said Bryan. He trod on the violin 
and a string went with a dreadful snap. The 
sound was as loud as thunder. It seemed 
to call the world in. And Bryan went 
straight to the bedroom door and thrust it 
open. There was no sound inside ; no sign of 
life. He breathed heavily and struck another 
match. He was going to see something — 
something which he had no wish to see. He 
half closed his eyes and put his revolver in 
his pocket. Something said he would not 
need it. Holding up the match he looked 
before him. There was a pile of strange 
and dreadful things on the floor, and on the 
bed there was not even a mattress. All the 
furniture of the bed was on the floor. And the 
match went out. 

Some think that thoughts and passions 
linger about a room and haunt it. They 
infect the walls, the enclosed air, and grip 
those who enter, infecting them also. Thus 
evil works after the deed ; hence come houses 
which none may live in, where certain people 
may see things unutterable — monstrous appa- 
ritions, crawling larvae. Some will speak of 
these things with white lips. 

" My God ! " said Bryan. His own mind 
was cleared of murder now, purged of it. 
The thought of it was incredible. 

And yet he felt as if he had murdered the 
man and had covered him up. 

" With— with the bed-clothes ; the— the 
mattress/' said Bryan. He knew old Simon 
was under that disordered heap. He or that 
pallid Scotsman had done it, not being able 
to endure the sight. For a moment, a long 
moment, he could not divide his mind from 
that of the man who had done this. His had 
the intent, the equal mad intent. The 


other man's mind worked on his. Perhaps 
it was still there. A murderer going away 
leaves more than the dead behind him. Some 
of himself remains there, drawn out of him, 
watching, watching ! 

" Yes, he's under there," said Bryan, 
"dead. I didn't do it." 

But he felt that he had done it. In all the 
horror of his troubled mind there was a kind 
of triumph. This wasn't his own. 

" It's the other man's," he said. He 
wondered how the other man had felt, how 
he had looked, and what he had done. He 
had killed the man, covered him up, and gone 
back into the other room looking for some- 

" For the papers, proofs of his debt," said 
Bryan, trembling. He imitated the man's 
face. That drew him on to follow his mind 
and his actions. He went back into the 
sitting-room and lighted the gas with a 
steady hand which made him wonder. The 
other man had perhaps been calm. And 
Bryan looked at the desk. 

" That's where he put his will," said Bryan. 
He knew the pigeon-hole in which the old 
man would put it. It wasn't there. Bryan 
went to the fireplace and found a pile of 
ashes and some half-burnt papers. He went 
on his knees and picked at them. Some 
were utterly burnt ; others half-destroyed 
legal documents, promissory notes, mort- 
gages. And suddenly he saw a triangular 
burnt strip with " This is my last will " on it. 
He picked it out and burnt even that in the 

" I may just as well," said Bryan. " Why 
not — why not ? It's no good now. I didn't 
burn it. And he's dead. They'll have some 

" They " were his wife and child. It did 
not occur to him that he would have money. 

He found himself creeping back to the 
bedroom, and lighted the gas there. 

" Perhaps he isn't dead," he thought. 
Mercy came to him suddenly in a flood. He 
pulled off the bed-clothes and the mattress 
with which the other man had covered up 
his work. And he saw the old man lying on 
his back. He knelt down by him and was 

"Yes, he's dead," said Bryan. "How 
fine he looks ! " 

That was the strange thing, for the man 
looked wonderful — very calm, very peaceful. 
There was something even great in the model- 
ling of the face ; meanness and the gross 
accretions of life had gone out of it. He 
looked as he might have looked if he had 





followed the destroyed impulses of his youth. 
" A dead musician/* said Bryan- 
There was a little blue mark in the centre 
of his forehead. 

" The bullet- wound/* said Bryan, " Poor 
old — poor old man ! n 

He put a pillow under his head and rose to 
his feet, staggering a little. Then he went 
into the other room. He felt very faint, but 
his thoughts seemed quite clear now. 

He went downstairs. He heard a clock 
strike ten as he reached the court, A tallish 
man crossed the court. No, he wasn't the 
Scotsman, said Bryan. Poor devil of a 
Scotsman ! Bryan staggered as he walked. 
The passer-by, a barrister who had chambers 
Digiiized by L^OOQ 1C 

in Paper Buildings, thought he was drunk, 
and stepped a little aside as Bryan came at 
him with outstretched arms. 

" My — my uncle's dead ! " said Bryan. 

" So's mine," said the barrister. 

And Bryan laughed. So did the barrister 
as he ran into someone at the archway, who 
begged his pardon in a Scotch accent. But 
this man, though he had heard what they 
said, did not laugh. 

lie followed Bryan to the porter's lodge 
and heard him tell his tale. And there 
Bryan saw him, 

" The man who was with my uncle this 
evening and quarrelled with him was — was 
—a foreigner/' m$ Bryan, 


" Picture -Building. 




VERYBODY is not born, and 
may not become in the techni- 
cal sense, an artist ; but 
everyone may, if he chooses f 
make his or her own pictures. 
How? Well, that is what I 
propose to show you. And 
when I say pictures, I don't mean crude 
daubs, such as may be seen on any metro- 
politan pavement or in any juvenile drawing- 
book, but finished black-and-white composi- 
tions which you may frame r,nd hanj on 
the wall — compositions of your very own, 

embodying some original idea of your own. 
But, you will say, how will you learn to draw 
so as not to excite laughter ? How can you 
acquire the technique of painting with brushes 
in black and white ? The answer is, you 
need not draw at all ; you need use no pig- 
ments, and the only brush you require is a 
paste-brush, For the drawing, the figures, 
the interiors, and all the accessory parts of 
the pictures will be drawn by somebody else. 
All you have to do is to *' compose " the 
picture— and any artist will tell you that the 
art of composition is by Ear the most import- 


Original from 

by Google 



ant factor in the creation 
of a picture. Many- thou- 
sands can reproduce more 
or less accurately the model 
of a man or woman or chair 
which they see before 
them, who find the utmost 
difficulty in fusing the 
whole into a picture* That 
is where you, dear reader, 
may come in. You may 
be unable to draw, but you 
are strong in composition, 
in the grouping faculty* 
But even if you are not 
thus strong you may, given 
a sufficient variety of mate- 
rial, of figures and acces- 
sories , produce some sur- 
prisingly good results. 

A small boy in the cripple 
ward of one of the London 
hospitals, having ejected 
by the aid of a pair of 
scissors all the dramatis 
persons of an entire num- 
ber of The Strand, treated 
the collection as so many 
puppets % and made them 
engage in a new repertoire, 
forming perpetually fresh 
combinations and illustrat- 
ing scenes and incidents of 
the child's own creation. It 
was this which suggested 
the idea of " picture-build- 
ing," Here is a pastime for 
the winter evenings in which 
young and old can engage* 
All you require is a copy 
of The Strand, a pair of 
scissors j a pot of paste and 
brush, some sheets of card- 
board upon which to group and paste down 
the figures, and two eyes in your head. Then 
you can proceed to make your combinations. 
If you cut out the figures carefully and take 
pains in pasting them down, it is really 
wonderful, owing to the thinness of the paper, 
how the " joins JS are concealed* The great 
dangers are grouping figures of the wrong size 
together and not allowing for perspective, 

But perhaps I may best illustrate the pro- 
cess of picture-building by a public exhibition 
of the latest additions to my own gallery. 
(I may mention, parenthetically, that I am 
an indifferent artist. Although I take the 
greatest parns in drawing a pig, my friends 
obstinately persist in calling it a dog, a sheep. 



an elephant— any thing but the normal inhabi- 
tant of a sty. There is nothing which has 
given more pain than the misunderstanding 
of my juvenile friends in this respect. But 
my triumph has come, and the walls are now 
covered with my " works.") I took the 
Christmas number of The Strand and cut out 
all the available illustrations from cover to 
cover. Then I began to arrange these in 
heaps according to size and character. 

Look at my first, I will not say canvas— 
shall I say cardboard ?— entitled " Rehears- 
ing the Amateur Pantomime." There are 
five interested spectators and auditors of a 
colloquy between a comic policeman-codfish, 
or codfish-policeman., and the heroine (not 




page 665. The 
overturned chair 
is from page 644, 
and lo, the composi- 
tion is complete ! 
Henceforth this is 
my creation — my 
picture. Not all 
my own ? I admit ; 
but ? then, what 
picture is all an 
artist's own ? Is he 
not constantly tak- 
ing from others ? 

In the next 
" The Too Success- 
ful Sportsman," the 
embarrassed maid- 
servant (from page 
681) is asking , 
** Excuse me, sir, 
but what am I to 
do with this fish ? " 
The grinning 
sportsman who has 
hooked (or har- 
pooned ?) the mon- 
strous fish (vide 

page IS 1 ) 
from page 
One of the 
children is a 
trait from 





in fancy dress). One, a gentleman, looks 
distinctly bored ; perhaps he is the author of 
the piece, or possibly he is the leading come- 
dian, who is growing weary of the efforts of 
his rival. The two ladies in the middle on 
the left came from page 667, and formed the 
nucleus of the picture. Afterwards come the 
lolling damsel in the foreground from page 
743 and another lady from page 740. The 
seated male was borrowed from Mr. Stott on 
page 665, There they are, all in a row, 
obviously looking at something intently. 
What shall it be ? Something novel and 
amusing— why not Mr, Shepherd's piscatory 
policeman on page 752 ? The lady he is 
addressing (from page 748) ceases to be, 
unhappily, where a mermaid ceases to be ; 
so it is therefore necessary to call into requi- 
sition the vase of chrysanthemums on page 
701. Now for a background and accessories. 
There are a wall and bookcase on page 609 
which will do nicely, and another bit on 

724, and the other 
from the advertise- 
ment of " Red- 
fern's Rubber Heels " on pige 40. 

Or let me take another pictorial creation 
of mine — a tragic scene in a cave or some 
other subterranean resort. A party of sight- 
seers has been inveigled into the farthest 
recesses by a plausible villain for the purpose 
of robbery or — who knows ? — murder* Hours 
elapse — they do not return. An organized 
search is made, two village girls assisting. 
Suddenly the discovery is made ; there is a 
Struggle: in the semi-darkness. Any explana- 
tion will serve— that is a second thought ; 
the chief thing is a struggle in the cavern. 
For a foundation— a background— I take, 
therefore, Mr. Gilbert Holiday's drawing on 
page 688 ? and one of his female figures 
obligingly serves me as a model , and another 
on page 686 does the same. For the strug- 
gling couple j and the stony floor of the cavern ? 
I rely upon Mr- Alec Ball's frontispiece, while 
for the head of the kind of scowling villain 
I want I borrow one iivra Mr. Simpson on 




page 632, Th: rear view of the gentleman 
in the ditch is taken from page 609 — and we 
have "The Tragedy of the Grotto/' 

When I came to the reproduction of Sir 
Edwin Landseer's dead shepherd, with the 
dog by the side of the deal coffin (page 692), 
I began to see the possibilities of a scene 
with a number of figures which should centre 
around this mysterious casket. I wanted a 
dark, imposing interior, and I found it in Mr. 
Dudley Hardy's illustration on page 703. 
There is a single figure there— a tragic female, 
She looked lonely. Her tragedy needed 
explanation* and what explanation so good 
or so convincing as that of the mysterious 
casket ? Forthwith it, and not she. took the 
centre of the stage— or ? rather, it and the dog* 
Hanging over it, with something in his hand, 
I placed a gentleman by Mr. C E« Brock 

from page 649. It was just the figure I 
wanted, and just the attitude. I could not 
have done it better myself, and so— like 
Molidre— I M went and took" just, what I 
required. On prend son hen ok Von It trouve. 
Gradually, and yet rapid ly, the scene was 
built up — a startled figure, seated, by Mr, 
Simpson, from page fisSj a ditto, standing, 
by Mr. Stott, on page 668; a couple of 
spectators ? also supplied by Mr- Simpson, on 
page 627, and lo 1 we have "The Midnight 
Mystery Revealed." 

All the foregoing have been wash-drawings, 
but one might, for a change , try a small 
mosaic of Li line/' Nothing simpler. There 
is a tropical maiden by Mr. Millar on page 790, 
Why should she not be " a-carrying on " with 
one of Mr, Jacobs's characters by Mr. Owen 
on page 720, when suddenly the stalwart 

Irishman on 
page 762 7 to 
whom she has 
given her heart, 
appears with 
the token she 
has given him 
in his hand; 
much to the 
honest sailor- 




IGHT MYSTERY RRVlfifrWpiftal from 




fusion ? The result is the picture entitled 
" I Hope I Don't Intrude ? " 

Lastly ? we have a scene full of mystery and 
animation — . the 
exact purport of 
which the spectator 
must supply for 
himself — I will call 
it i{ A Problem 
Picture." I only 
wish to indicate 
that I borrowed the 
male and female 
figures on the ex- 
treme left from 
page 766, but the 
face of the lady 
comes from the 
pages , and those on 
the extreme right 
from page 627. The 
table (at least, part 
of it) comes from 
page 768, some of 
the background 
from page 786, 
and the other dra- 
matis persons will 
be discovered else- 


u pi^ure-building" 
will be found not 
only an innocent 
and pleasant diver- 
sion, but capital 
practice in the art 
of pictorial com- 
position. It might 
well form part of 
the curriculum of 
art schools, 

One word more, 
If any reader of 
The Strand be- 
comes an" adept 
at it, and although 
an indifferent 
draughtsman would 
prefer not to bor- 
row his figures 
and accessories 
ready - made by 
others j he has 
only to resort to 
the camera s and, 
with two or three 
models and a 
series of costumes, produce as many figures 
and u situations " as he pleases for subse- 
quent combination. 

by Google 



Songs of the Great Schools. 



F the many hundreds of public 
school songs which have been 
written, none have become 
more popular or more widely 
known than " Forty Years 
On/' the most successful of 
the many successful songs by 
the late John Farmer. Although it is, above 
all others, the Harrow song, its bold and 
stirring melody, no less than the sentiments 
expressed in its words, makes it a special 
favourite with every public school boy and 
old boy in the kingdom. Readers of Mr. 
Vachell's "The Hill" do not need to be told 
that Harrow is pre-eminently a singing 
school, or to be reminded of the great part 
the school songs play in the lives of Harrovians 
past and present. 

"The great Harrow song," writes the 
head master, u is < Forty Years On,' words 
by E. E. Bowen, and the music by John 
Farmer." Mr. Vachell calls it " the National 
Anthem of Harrow." He describes a scene 
where a famous Empire soldier, himself an 
Etonian, whom we have no difficulty in 
identifying as Lord Roberts, heard it and 
was deeply moved. 

"As the hundreds of voices, past and 
present indissolubly linked together, imposed 
the mandate, r Follow up ! ' the head master 
glanced at his guest, but left unsaid the 
words about to be uttered. Tears were 
trickling down the cheeks of the man who, 
forty years before, Had won his Sovereign's 
Cross— For Valour." 

No one who has ever heard a group of 
Marlburians shouting out the refrain of " The 
Marlborough Volunteer " needs to be told 
that this, if without the dignity of the official 
" Carmen Marlburiense," is really the song 
of the school in the same sense and even to 
the same degree that " Forty 'Years On " is 
the song of Harrow, The words were written - 
by the Rev. Cyril Alington/ an old Marl- 
burian and now head master of Shrewsbury,*, 
who sends the following account of how the 
song was written : — - - 

" During an attack of influenza I got Mr. 
Cobb's tune to Mr. Rudyard • fopling's 
4 Route Marching 9 in my head and wrote the 

words to suit it. By a curious coincidence 
the words were sent to Mr. Cobb, himself an 
Old Marlburian, to set to music, and I 
remember hearing that, so far from recog- 
nizing the metre, he found it particularly 
difficult to set. I imagine that this story 
reflects more discredit on me than on him, 
and you are therefore at perfect liberty to 
publish ii." 

" The songs of Uppingham," writes the 
music master of that famous school, which 
some thirty-five years ago underwent dramatic 
vicissitudes, " are not like ordinary school 
songs, but are much more elaborate. They 
are rather by themselves — so far as I know — 
as compositions." Of the sixteen songs 
contained in the Uppingham Song-Book the 
words of all but two of them were written by 
the man who made Uppingham — the late 
Edward Thring, for many years head master 
of the school — and this, no doubt, explains 
why they are all so essentially Uppinghamian 
in character. 

Associated with him was Paul David, a son 
of the famous musician, Ferdinand David, who 
was for thirty years chief music master at 
Uppingham. He was a great friend of his 
father's pupil, Dr. Joachim, the celebrated 
violinist, who became a frequent performer at 
the Uppingham School concerts (his last public 
appearance, two days before his death, was 
at one of these gatherings). With such 
powerful influences it is easy to understand 
the musical enthusiasm which resulted in a 
staff of no fewer than seven music masters, 
and the tremendous musical reputation which 
Uppingham now enjoys — a reputation which 
is being "ably maintained by the grandson of 
_ another famous .composer— Mr. R. Sterndale 
. Bennett. 

David composed the music for nearly all 
Thring's words, and, as may be imagined, 
their songs are regarded with an affection, 
unexcelled, and rarely equalled, at any school 
in the world. The special favourites are the 
" Farewell," which is always sung at the school 
concert at the close of the summer term, the 
" Football ' Song," sung at the end of the 
Michaelmas term, and the " School Song/' 
which is performed on every possible occasion . 

Vol. xtiii. 

[Next month we shall give the songs of the following Public Schools 
Haileybury, Rugby, and Ros&tdl.] 




Harrbw S£ka>lS 


y TKT^. W f W y Wjrd ' ^ ^ E BOWEN. 


M«ic ly JOHN FAR HER 1 

forty yuuv <mwkrn*-£«r vd *.ftm<J*r Rn-fced ^tw^tta** ^*> &r* ^uvtfinrf fodfry 

Then it rwy Wlher* will of fcer* come ocryou G limp/* s of no t ^ lik*lke c*tek of * Sor\A 

by Google 

Original from 



Echoc/of imuiil*rwl*^all LeaAernali^ Follow ^^^^U-tj-^i 

SI 1 ' ir f] v 

tfwt\ , WTSK% 1 e bw*pc^kt twenty h*o men— Rllowup! Follcw upf 

f?ou{v-*no! discern A ture*r. ruHve^Arui rallied 

Q,wv/ adrempfed , *nd rescued , amd -von „ 
St r vfe wSKcrnt Miier and *rt without malice— 

Ho* viH it .neem lo you forty year.r on ? 
THetvyou will /w, not *■ fever t.£h rttinute 

Strained ike weak heart and pke 'wavering knee. 
Never Ik* taftle raged MfteA, tut init r 

NetTrver rc\e 1*Jt norTh* fain tcvt, were «* ' 

"Follow ut 

O The Are&t dayiT. inlhe oJuftance enck&nted 

Day./- of freA *ir P irOne r*u\ and Tne j%i r\ , 
How wc rejoiced *v we *Arufl&led *nd parted 

H*r Jly k*U*v*tV fcr fry yc*r*r On f 
J"ic7w *wc ixscrtufsd of in em .one with another. 
V\xidfc*TmJJ triumph, or hfrlanCTJ-uJ fate 
Loved the »lly wirhihe heart of a brother. 
Hated ihe fijc with a blayind a h hate ! 



I^r^y year-r on.^rowind older and older. 

Shorter m wtnd.a^ in memory ton A , 

Reble oi" foot, and rheumatic of <moul3er 

^JW^*t wjlit help you That once you wereAronjt? 
God £iv«l us h±s*s boAu*rd or beleaguer, 

Oame*r t« play o^fc^wnemer earnc-/t or fun > 
fidht^ forme fearle-*/* And^oalv ferine eajStr. 
nic nty. and 1Ki rty , and forty years- on I 

Fallow up f%. m^^ 

JimcijA ff'iHiami, Lie 

by \j>C 


Original from 





f txirxxoudli School Sqhi6 

I WirJa lj C A ALinCTOH, O.A . ^J Auk tj GERARD F. COM, Oil f^f 

/^W«r#fa m* can sptnlo. J*mp' m * bJI* m»rci* J = SO 

fr^N»irj i jr^>iijffr i riiji 

W > Hj. *>■ ^ ; ^-nn-c e r J" J 

TK*r* *r* tnwp/ d*.rrtbed *v fiwuUr/, Mi It- ti* *rJ Tlftnn*, TKer* ftr* 


N»hv*/ tin %& bntier who arc servants of Th* Qieen We arc proud of fell lk*lot of Them*™! 


j 1 +d > \i i 

r r L j 1 4 j : 




prouder cvry j«*t -ButlKe puA of *l] ^* Se/vict 1J%* Mvl Wot^jK VolurtUtr 

i i l< ' iiiJJ i T'iii 

j d i " ' r r J J i f J I a 

jfc,i» V J £ '*y * "y^fa 

B eirr f r J- fu j-jJ^__j^ 

So ii^ "Hi 1 y&u5W** WoriJ: )/bw be & Volunteer? Tor you 

& M \i\i i W ^n 


by Google 

Original from 



wonTde-ny it^ tra&\ it when jWuW tried J far 3* y c*T^ for your 

i- ^ 



*ft r, r f. r.Te r. fi * J Fj / j' j j._ i 

i* O II hi a _i ^__ . rt i „_,_ -_ — . J * J ^i-__'*iJTi ■__ 


/kouloW wiH be Afrflfrfrr.ftftd your courjffi erven flre»te-r,^flw\ yow 


j.l ' J ' J l i ^ B 

P F f + 


F p tf 





CJK [h*r* jr* ^omt tMle«tr»vb»ctw *rJ Ji/lirv twfts rr\*y k* m*cl* 
jie*\i\tr* field d*y^ in ckc ^vmnvcr *od IHc fr£ J* w crvp*r»d*- 
Tpu n\u/fr doiKe •rvrtv your^lf - tadlne fiwriM^ pretty clear ■ 
\ ""Yc/u JKould work If Out by 'ftx.fctce **/■ * M*rltordtJj£K "Volunteer 
| ^ Ooits Hi 1 you P 4 *** ' If you're no! 


3U veri 

low Jt^uld torn* \t\to rke COUTf P^A behave &y if yoi 
Fo'Trvrrcy Serjle&ftf HoU*r\d wading to Dedtft vodlfitfatirvA. 
5*Hj^d you rveeorit rntnd your deafness for yw prab*.bly wtll K 

Hertv » health Go all TheOJpjce*v *rvd *Rivft r *J r i^J of course 1 
^.TeHv Hpnonary Captain »f%d Kw korvourable horvc . 
Here/" * ckeer (c/r &U 9vc>C'yc2LA«r ^rvJ bumper &r ike ©aj\a f 

So we 11 ju^J repeal Tht Ckoru,/ - and 1 lku>k you'd ke^riftknd 
tar w*"r# all fritfpid^^rt Evry or\e » Vol wr\ t**r. 
?Vrd wr* pretty j-mfrcf *lr»*dly *rsi wcrft/tMrUr *v'ry ye*r; 

- wken ev ry on* 1/ wi J 1 1 
V^Lnd jker*^ r© on* kr\o*^ 

L #4 *n^*rtv' a lot ck*t comw 
fr better ftfcr3%e FWiWoi 




Original from 




Ho. hays. Ko 1 Hotoy/, ko' G*H\cr round to &t\rs€t M&rui 

K^u/* * v*tcK wotJ ir\ lK^ Urid ot*nd nvy nucrry c/ift^men -bo* J ^.^ 



r rifTitr i j 


iWlk^LU ^ Hr j^' 

Brolkcr^ of tht crownof £cid "W^^Mm Arnn.3 daw of old TV r f --«f » 

Wroudkl ir\ 


r n il 1' i Vm 

tfiHi ^a l i l ** f T3 T lT f T l 

Gold of korfvlwt krj?« r\o Lie. C*old of worklkit doe-' r\ot die 

- f' 

j Jl/. v^ip lipjiii 


Original from 



Ha my merry avftsmcn toU, "Work a - «3»uv ike crowix of 4ol 

Work it n*v vOMr*, youru* and old. Gainer (Sau^r near AnJ far. 


^^L / Uppmfi ham kur rak hur rah ' Uppiru? ham Hti'- rak. fur ■ rak * 


fff-^ f - 

Ho boy*/; ko ' 
Her* anc jewels frolic fun. 
Sp**4tl*V c*iJdJ\i fon\ ekildkood^ Ajn . 
S^**t«A dreamy by fancy bred , 
NJPT\in pa dreamers pillow d head 

Onkur ri>ir-7V all unpaid 

t?«/t^ anil dmam^ &A/- and d?wamj> 
SriAd your cricket, weld it in. 
Foot balU' fire ajvdbatient Ain 
Ho, my m*rry craft^me/v bold 
'VTOsrk Mam ike ctenrn of <feld 

Work itnew. boyv yound and old 

Clear tt nnAA r\ofla^ no j*r 

LJppi A^Kfcm . kurraX, ktf rrak ' 

ZL Ho. bcw. Kd ' 

Flin^f Y^ur banner broad ,eack Jold 
^wftTriW\.n«irloorr\^ iKat we kold, 
y^HonoWTjLrLt urw a loan,, 

H^li^ of flvow^J. by JwW /ovr\ P 
AWalL/. ofdbv+tnASS not our own, 


t(\ ku-fcel£-y ^it^ *nci r^ftf 
New./* of fkr off koly%try^ 
HemortfcV of old, old d*y5^ 
Sacred, melodic^ c£ br&L/% 
S%reli tnumpkant av «fe r*i^* 
W*t*=k word true in fwacc of w 
Upmrugh»m kurrak. kurrak ' 

. ^J.J.J,-' ^i .. t |rf i f-(J! 

Ho boy/- ko ! 

^/" atl your po**r 
and ^WntU^r kovr . 

t>TAd ywr p p i* 

firWfcflw battles li?t andlkcft 

T^ujjhtin ocr and Oer *datn 

Till yc vnc/tled wHrA-ntftiK from pain 

Srvnrf all bn,nd 
Hopev deep do vntkat .^lint lit. 
Madcap vckemiW and purpose kiok . 
tie my rncrry crafti/men bold. 
\X^brk aji»iriThfc cr&vfv ofdpid 
TKaf your fathers worked of old 
Clear tt rin.£/\ eack bolder* bar 
Uppt njirwrtruir- raK . kurrak ' 

£ Hfi boyw, Ko I 

GraSkerd in from many a land* 
Foot Jo faot, and hand in kand* 
Holkefiehc and ike £in, 
Jok«v float ro i^nd Trvtcircl*- run. 
Merry ^tetiryir iSamAV we *ot\. 

Gamtv w* l*3l •* loA v* »en 
Ntw boyv comtr^l barfly rot Id 
Out of new boyX t^^ old. 
Ckambion*/ o£ The cwvft rf jgold . 
Jolly neart/That jjrow not color 
H*nd m k*nd toJfcS\er kold. 
Sin*lin4 whereto eki 4 vc ane 
LAatnndlwn Kurrak. kwrrak ' 

by Google 

Original from 



Authar of (i The English of the Countess " 
Illustrated by Hal Hurst. 

XACTLY seven minutes had 
the doors of the famous 
picture gallery been opened, 
and already there were four- 
teen students scrambling for 
places about the " Para- 
bella," Politely, but firmly, 
the custodian intervened. 

" Ladies and gentlemen, you know the 
rules/ 1 

He waved an arm towards a polyglot 
notice hanging on the wainscoting beneath, 
the English por- 

tion of 
read : — 




It forbidden is for 
more than six stu- 
dents to copy this 
tableau at one and 
the same. 

The Direktor. 

"Eight gentle* 
men and ladies 
will there fore have 
the pleasure to 
retire/' continued 
the custodian. 
The little group of 
copyists nearest 
the world-famous 
Titian naturally 
paid no attention 
to this request, 
but severally hum- 
med, whistled, 
gossiped j and clat* 



tered away — all except one slender, pale youth 
with a long nose 3 thick yellow hair, and 
dreamy expression, who was very silent and 
absorbed in his work. His canvas was the 
exact si2e of the original, and to the lay eye 
there was nothing more to add to it. It 
already seemed an exact replica, save that 
perhaps it wanted a little more dirty varnish. 
But the artist, Pieter Vanderbeck, could 
have told you about little elusive lights, 
delicate nuances, and trifling details of surface 
which escape the notice of the inexpert. 

"A rattling copy 
that," murmured 
one Burnshaw,an 
Englishman, to 
his neighbour a 
sallow little Pari- 

"Pouft It 
ought to be! " she 
returned, in a 
spiteful whisper. 
" It's the Dutch- 
man's fifth in the 
last six months," 
Then she leaned 
over and said 
aloud : u Pardon, 
Mynheer Vander- 
beck, but what do 
you do with your 
Parabellas ? Sell 
'em to the Jew 
dealers ? " 

u I burn them/' 
he answered, 

dreamily. " 1 have 

Original from J 




burnt four already to the perfume of fran- 
kincense and the music of a lute," 

The other copyists, overhearing this ex- 
travagance, regarded each other significantly. 

fc * Bit off his nut ? ain't he ? M murmured the 

But the lady pursued her interrogations, 

" And what, Mynheer Vanderbeck, will 
vou do with this ? " 

11 This ? Oh, as this is 
altogether perfect^ I think 
I shall present this to my 
Sovereign, Her Gracious 
Majesty the Queen of the 

"Oh-h!" jeered the 
group , in chorus. 

More or less assiduously, 
all day long they worked 
at copying the Parabulia, 
and then, as the afternoon 
waned, one by one the 
workers dropped off, tak- 
ing down their stretched 
canvases and folding up 
their chairs and easels, 
leaving Pieter Vanderbn k 
the last. He always was 
the last. 

Left alone, it 
was a solemn 
moment for Van- 
derbeck. In ten 
minutes more the 
hour for closing 
the Pinakothek 
would arrive. Vanderbeck 
took up his copy and placed 
it against the wall, holding 
it up against the famous 
original , so that both would 
receive the same light- His 
eye sparkled, 
'"It's only the frame/' he 
said at last. " The frame 
makes such a difference, If 
only I could see mine in that 
frame ! If only I— 

Parabella, With that passionate desire for 
absolute fidelity which possessed him, he 
had even imitated the grain and colour of 
the canvas. He had gone the length of 
inscribing a sprawling 

11 TlCIANO " 

on the back, in a slavish imitation of the 
master. Vanderbeck had scarcely adjusted 
his copy in the frame, and suspended it again 

He glanced hurriedly at his 
watchj then around at the 
open doorways. The next moment he had 
reached up both arms and removed the Fara- 
bella (mm the wall, bending over it, while with 
deft, practised fingers he rapidjy loosened the 
fastenings of Titian's masterpiece. It seemed 
but a couple of minutes' labour and the Para- 
bella was out of her frame — the setting which 
had, perhaps, enclosed her for centuries. 

Vanderbeck had often seen the back of the 

Digitized by do i. 


from the brass hooks on the wall, when the 
custodian, making his final round, appeared 
in the doorway. 

il Ah, Herr Vanderbeck, I thought you had 
gone. It is a minute past the hour." 

Trembling with excitement* Vanderbeck 
cast a hurried glance at his Parabella on the 
walls of the Markenburg Pinakothek. At 
last, at Jhj&t :th£| dreams of his youth were 




realized ;a.nd he, 
Pieter Vander- 
beck, the Rot* 
terdam jewel- 
ler's son, was 
amongst the 

Such vain ex- 
ultation was in- 
stantly eclipsed, 
For was not the 
Farabella — the 
real Parabella, 
the idol of his 
sleeping and 
waking hours 
these ten years 
— under his 
arm ? Was he 
not— wonder of 
wonders ! rap- 
ture of rap- 
tures ! — actu- 
ally embracing 
this sweet and 
gracious Vene- 
tian, whose 
beauty was ac- 
knowledged by 
all the painiers 
in the universe? 
True^her beauty 
was somewhat 
obscured at 
this present 
moment, fur in 
full view of the 
custodian he 
stretched a large 
soiled linen 
cloth about her, 
over her green 
silk dress and 
over her jewels. 

Out into the street Vandcrbetk, who 
did not often indulge in .such luxuries, 
hailed a cab and bade the man drive 
ito his lodgings, 

i Vanderbeck raised the canvas on to 
the opposite seat and threw off the 
dark linen wrapper. Ecstasy seized his 
jsoul as he found himself gazing into the 
woman's eyes — alone with Parabella. 
He leaned forward and gently touched 
the canvas with his lips. 

At that instant a motor-car, turning 
a corner at a great pace, struck the cab 
with terrific force, causing it to capsize 
and flinging Vanderbeck through the 

Digitized by V-*00< 





| . B Original from 

glass in front 
with a fractured 
skull. Horse and 
driver (and, let 
us add , M L-a 

was taken to his 
humble lodg- 
ings, where he 
hung between 
life and death 
for weeks, his 
landlady mean- 
while receiving 
no Tent. At last 
the good crea- 
ture bethought 
her that perhaps 
Mr. Schultz 
would advance 
a little money, 
as he commonly 
did to needy 
painters, So 
Srhuhz came — 
Srhultz, who 
kept a picture 
and antiquities 
shop, and made 
rather a good 
thing in supply- 
ipg carved 
frames and fur- 
niture to his 
patrons, Schultz 
looked over the 
meagrecon tents 
of the studio, 
carefully turn- 
ing over this 
thing and that, 
and finally came 
across the Para- 
bella. It struck 
him at once- 

" That's the 
picture he had 
copied at the 
gallery/ 5 ex- 
phi 1 n vt\ t h 2 
landlady. "He 
had it in the 
cab the day of 
the accident." 

Schultz, who 
had put on his 




Spectacles, examined it with increasing as- 
tonishment. He knew every picture of value 
at the Pinakothek, and he often gave orders 
for copies, and this was certainly as faithful a 
copy as he had ever come across in his life. 

An idea took hold of him — an important 
idea — a brilliant and audacious idea. This 
clever work by the unfortunate young Dutch- 
man was so good that an expert would be 
deceived — even the Director of the Pinakothek 
himself would not be exempt from deception. 

" I will give you two hundred marks for 
this," he observed to the landlady, casually. 
The landlady admirably controlled her delight. 

" Perhaps he will want more," she hazarded, 

" We won't haggle. It is not a bad copy — 
I will pay five hundred marks." And without 
so much as casting a glance at the unconscious 
artist on the bed, Schultz counted out five 
hundred-mark notes . to the woman and 
walked out of the shabby studio with the 
Parabella under his arm. 

Schultz knew all the workings of that great 
museum, the Markenburg Pinakothek. He 
knew the exits and the entrances of the 
custodians, the hours of opening and closing, 
the days of cleaning. He knew, when the 
Director, the sub-Director, and the chief 
keeper arrived and went to lunch, and when 
they departed, and upon what days they 
-departed earlier than other days. He also 
knew the custom of rotation of the various 
keepers. And the result of ; this intimate 
knowledge was to convince him of the com- 
parative ease with which; he might substitute 
this copy of the Parabella for the ParabeHa 
on the walls. But there was a risk, and 
Schultz, rascal as he was, was far too wise to 
take that risk unless he had first made sure 
of a purchaser. 

A fortnight before his shop had been visited 
by a wealthy American — Mr. Otis P. Hanks, 
of Chicago — to whom he had sold a small 
picture by one of the lesser Flemish masters. 
Hanks had loudly proclaimed his admiration 
for the glorious Titian which hung in the 

" I've got a Titian myself/' he explained, 
" and I paid twenty thousand dollars for it. 
But it ain't a chromo to that. I guess that's 
Titian's high-water mark. And to think of 
it lying hid for two hundred years in old King 
Lud wig's palace! I'd ha' paid Ludwig a 
hundred thousand for it as quick as greased 

Schultz laughed softly. 

" One hundred thousand dollars ! " he said. 
" Why, my dear sir, do you know that that 

Digitized by G * 

Titian is worth twice or three times as much 
money as that ? If the Parabella were for 
sale I shouldn't be surprised if it would fetch 
a hundred thousand pounds ! " 

" That's a powerful sight o' money," drawled 
the millionaire from Chicago, by no means 
abashed ; " but I guess it's worth it" 

Schultz now could go to that American and 
ask him if he was prepared to purchase the 
Parabella — the real, the genuine Parabella. 

At the Kronprinz Hotel he was at once 
shown in to Mr. Hanks. 

" Well ? " said the American. 

"About that Titian — the Parabella,' ; 
Schultz began. 

The American changed colour ; for a 
moment he was obviously disconcerted. 

"What— what about it?" he faltered. 

" What would you say if I told you the 
Parabella had been stolen ? " 

" Well," replied Mr. Hanks, recovering 
himself, " they ought to look after their 
property better. When was it stolen ? " 

Schultz smiled. 

" I'm only putting a hypothesis," he said. 
" Suppose it were stolen — just supposing. 
Suppose the real canvas, unimpeachable, 
convincing — were brought to you. What 
would you be prepared to give for it ? " 
. " Look here," said Mr. Hanks, with a 
puzzled air ; < " do you know Israels ? " 

" Which . Israels ? Not the Hamburg 
dealer ? " . . . 

" Yes. Do you know him ? " 

Schultz nodded impatiently. 
, " Are you a friend of his ? " asked the 
American, suspiciously. 

Schultz raised his hands to heaven* 

" There, don't get excited. Only I thought 
you were. Have you seen or had any dealings 
with him lately ? " 

* " Netn / " cried Schultz, with emphasis. 
. Hanks laughed. 

" Well, now, that's funny," he said. 
" That's the funniest thing I ever heard in 
my life." He began walking up and down, 
chuckling heartily. 

" But the Parabella ? " groaned Schultz. 

" Oh, I'll buy it. Don't you lose any sleep 
over that. Only let me know if you get it." 

" Will you pay for it — half a million 
marks ? " 

Otis P. Hanks, still chuckling, nodded, and 
the interview wa*s at an end. 

When Schultz was on his way home news- 
boys were shouting something in the street. 
At first he paid no attention to what they 
were saying, being very much preoccupied. 

The cries of the newsvendors finally induced 

u I I I ■_' I I I 


7 6 


Schultz to buy a newspaper, and the first 
thing his eyes fell on were the words in black 
type : — 


" When the Pinakothek was opened this 
morning," ran the account, " the keeper 
was horrified to discover that the frame of the 
Parabella, that priceless masterpiece of 
Titian, acquired from King Ludwig's collec- 
tion, was empty.' 1 

Schultz clapped his hand to his brow. 

" Sold ! " he ejaculated, through clenched 

As for the Pinakothek authorities, into what 
confusion were they plunged ! Two days later 
they offered a reward of fifty thousand marks 
for the return of the picture. 

" Oho ! " cried Schultz when he read of the 
offer. " Fifty thousand marks is by no means 
a sum to be despised. / will restore it ! " So 
he promptly sat down and composed a letter 
to the Herr Director of the Pinakothek. 

" I beg to apprise you," he wrote, " that 
there has come to my knowledge information 
which may lead to the restitution of Titian's 
masterpiece, the Parabella. The present 
holder demands one hundred and fifty thou- 
sand marks, and that no questions be asked. 
Accede to these terms within twenty-four 
hours and the Parabella is yours." 

Two hours later the Director himself drove 
up to Schultz's shop. 

" It is impossible for the Government to 
pay more than the reward. But there are 
other resources. I will see what can be done 
by private persons. Are you sure it. is 
the Parabella ? Quite — quite sure ? " 

" I have seen it," said Schultz. " It is 
beyond all question the Parabella." 

" Then give me till Thursday. Come to 
my office, unless you hear from me to the 
contrary, on Thursday at eleven." 

The Director was in a state of great per- 
turbation, for so intense was the public feeling 
aroused by the loss that he feared to lose his 

On the day and at the hour appointed 
Schultz presented himself, bearing a large 
picture under his arm. He was ushered 
into an ante-room, where his disgust was 
great to find three other persons waiting to 
see the Director. Each of them also carried 

Schultz waited impatiently. At the expira- 
tion of twenty-five minutes the door was 
flung open, and a commissionaire, hot-faced 
and labouring with excitement, appeared. 

" Gentlemen, you are all, I take it, interested 
in the Parabella?" 

" Yes, yes," they cried in chorus. 

The commissionaire smiled and wiped his 

" Then, gentlemen, you are too late. The 
Parabella has been restored." 

" Restored ! " The quartette gasped for 

" Precisely. The Director is now with the 
journalists in the Venetian Room." 

Schultz waited to hear no more. All his 
schemes were suddenly shattered. He 
quickened his steps, hurrying out to the 
Venetian Room, where he found the chamber 
crowded, and heard the Director explaining to 
the assembled reporters. 

A detective, it appeared, making his round 
that morning, had been nonplussed to find 
the missing Parabella, not in its place, but on 
the floor beneath the frame. To the canvas 
was pinned a letter, in which the writer con- 
fessed that five years before he had stolen the 
Parabella and replaced it by a forgery. The 
thought of what he had done had preyed on 
his mind ; but until now he had never been 
able to summon up enough courage to make 
restitution. Now, when Markenburg and the 
whole of Europe was stirred to its depths by 
the supposed loss of a masterpiece, he was 
impelled to come forward and state that 
what had been purloined was not the master- 
piece, but a copy. He now salved his con- 
science and restored the genuine Titian to the 

That was the story which the reporters gave 
to the world, and for a week all went well, 
and the admiring crowds around the Parabella 
became again a social topic in Markenburg. 
Then the Director had a fresh anxiety. He 
received a visit from the aged Dr. Schmuss, 
who had formerly held the post of Director. 

" You must still search for the Parabella," 
began Dr. Schmuss, solemnly. 

The Director leapt to his feet. 

" Search for the Parabella ! Nonsense i 

" Because the one hanging there is itself a 
forgery. The true Parabella has a hole in the 
canvas, just over the lady's left breast." 

" But how did the hole get there ? " 

" Listen," said Dr. Schmuss, trembling with 
emotion. " I did it. It was an accident, 
purely ; but I resigned my directorship in 
consequence. I never could forgive myself 
such fatal carelessness. It happened in this 
way." And Dr. Schmuss went on to explain 
the accident in detail; how he had once 
removed the Parabella from the wall and was 


j i 1 1 .' 1 1 1 




examining it with a lighted candle, when some 
paraffin fell and ignited, and in a second the 
canvas was in flames. 

" Mein Gott ! I was so paralyzed that the 
whole picture was nearly lost. Fortunately, 
the area of complete destruction was restricted 
to three and a half inches." 

" Who is acquainted with these facts ? " 
inquired the Director, endeavouring to master 
his emotion. 

" The restorer, old Steinbach. He has 
examined this canvas — the one now hanging 
in the Venetian Room — and can find no trace 
of the restoration. My conscience will not 
permit me to be silent." 

In consequence of this information the 
Herr Director again summoned Schultz to 
him. He also renewed appointments to the 
other dealers who had previously offered to 
restore the missing Titian. 

When the delirium finally left him, Van- 
derbeck sat up in bed swathed with bandages, 
and tried to realize what had happened. 

For forty-eight hours more all memory of 
" La Parabella " seemed erased from his 
brain. Then, on a certain afternoon, he 
grew practical, and told the landlady that he 
must write to his uncle, as he feared he owed 
her a great deal of money for rent and medi- 

The honest woman laughed outright. 

" Herr Vanderbeck, make your mind easy 
on that score," she cried, cheerily. " I have 
good news for you. Something had to be 
done, and so I sold a picture of yours to 
Mr. Schultz for five hundred marks. It was 
only a copy, you know." 

" Picture!" cried Vanderbeck. "What 
picture ? " 

" Oh, it was the picture you had with you 
when the accident happened." 

In a flash Vanderbeck's lost memory came 

" Gross Himmel ! " he cried. " The Para- 
bella! Woman — thrice wretched woman — 
you have sold — the Parabella ! " 

" Eh ? What Parabella ? " 

11 Oh, you wouldn't understand. I am 
undone ! I must see this Schultz at once. 
Go, I tell you — fetch Schultz, or I shall get 
up and go for him myself." 

" Herr Schultz," groaned Vanderbeck, when 
the dealer had duly made his appearance, 
" there has been a terrible mistake. This 
good woman has sold you a picture — one I 
could not sell. I have written to my people 
for money. I will repay you the five hundred 
marks in two days." 

Digitized by CjOOQ I C 

" Five thousand, you mean," corrected 
Schultz, blandly. For at last he saw his way to 
a trifling profit. " I could not let it go for 
a penny less. You see, I have promised it to 
a customer. It is such a clever copy, and 
the whole world is talking of the Parabella." 

Vanderbeck turned as pale as the sheet of 
his bed. 

" Do they know ? " he gasped. 

" Know ? Know what ? They know the 
picture was stolen a fortnight ago, and tha^it 
has been replaced again in the most mys- 
terious manner. But, there — I forgot, my 
dear young friend. You have not heard of 
these things." 

" Replaced ? Who replaced it ? Heavens, 
it was you ? " 

"No such luck ! " retorted Schultz, stolidly. 

" But the Parabella — my copy — I mean, 
where is it ? " 

14 Oh, I have it at my shop. I bought it 
fairly and straightforwardly, and I'll sell it 
again — at a fair profit." 

" Herr Schultz," Vanderbeck said, trem- 
bling with excitement, " I cannot pay you 
so large a sum as five thousand marks. But 
you shall have one thousand. You cannot 
keep the picture, because it wasn't mine to 
sell. Herr Schultz," continued the young 
painter, in an agony, " I am a criminal. I 
stole it. That picture is the real Parabella." 

" Nonsense ! " said Schultz. " The real 
Parabella has been restored, I tell you. 
Besides, the theft didn't occur until a week 
after I came here and foolishly bought that 
copy of yours. I thought I was doing you a 
good turn." 

Vanderbeck paused to gather up his 
thoughts, and then, in trembling, feverish 
accents, he recounted his story in full— how 
he had worshipped the Parabella ever since 
he had seen a coloured photograph of it in 
Rotterdam, how he had saved up the money, 
gained by portrait-painting, to come and copy 
it, and how, enthralled by its beauty, he had 
yielded to a sudden temptation and sub- 
stituted his copy for the original. 

Schultz listened with increasing interest. 

" Will you swear to all this ? " he asked. 

" Swear to it ? Of course I will. I stole 
the Parabella, and for that fearful deed 
Heaven instantly punished me." 

Schultz pondered, pacing up and down the 

" H'm ! I don't see how I'm to gain any- 
thing by such a cock-and-bull story," he said. 
" Where do I come in ? " And he left Vander- 
beck, muttering, " Well, well, I'll see what 

I can do " 

Original from 




On the way home a fresh idea came to him. 

" Moses and Aaron ! I have it ! If this 
fellow's'story is true, the Parabella now at the 
Pinakothek is false. I can pretend to have 
sold it. Himmel ! I'd be a fool to give it 
back. I'll sell it— yes. I'll sell it to— Otis P. 
Hanks, of Chicago." 

He stepped instantly into a telegraph- 
office and dispatched the following wire : — 

"Otis P. Hanks, Hotel Regina, Paris.— 
Lady now on view impostor. Possess abso- 
lute proofs. Original here at your disposal. 
Wire immediately. — Schultz." 

That same evening came the reply : — 

" Lady certainly an impostor. But cannot 
do business this time as genuine original 
reached Chicago safely yesterday. — Hanks." 

What did it — what could it mean ? Why, 
that the American had himself bought a 
canvas which he believed to be the Parabella. 
Was that the one which was stolen from the 
frame a week after Vanderbeck's exploit ? 
Had the scoundrel Israels a hand in that 
second robbery ? Then Israels or his paid 
thief had been deceived. This fact did not 
invalidate the claims of the Parabella which 
Vanderbeck claimed to have stolen, and which 
was now in Schultz's possession. 

Midnight found the Hebrew dealer with the 
door of his shop locked, poring over young 
Vanderbeck's Parabella, on the table before 
him, with a magnifying glass. His gaze was 
riveted on a deftly-repaired spot in nearly the 
middle of the canvas. 

" Odd I never noticed that before," he 
said. " An uncommonly neat piece of work. 
This is no copy. This ought to identify the 
picture. Is there anything else ? " 

A slight blue mark in the lower left corner 
of the canvas at the back caught his eye. 

Now, it has been said that Schultz dealt, 
amongst other things, in artists' materials, 
and one of these materials was canvas. Some 
of this canvas was very brown and simulated 
age, which was not wonderful, since it had 
frequently been used before. But there was 
one peculiarity which neither time nor the 
manufacturers ever attempted to simulate, 
and that was Schultz's own private shop- 
mark. This canvas bore that mark in tiny 
but unmistakable characters, in indelible 
blue ink. What this meant was that Mr. 
Schultz had had this very piece of canvas in 
his establishment as part of his canvas stock 
in trade in the year 1905 ! 

Schultz flung himself back in a chair and 
wiped" his forehead. 

" It is a copy after all. This game's far 
too exciting for me — too exciting and too 


dangerous. I shall throw it up. If that half- 
crazy Dutchman thinks this is the real 
Parabella and that he stole it — well, I sha'n't 

When, therefore, two days later, early in 
the morning, Vanderbeck's landlady came to 
him with a touching appeal and six hundred 
marks, Schultz let her have the picture, and 
was glad to be rid of a foolish business. 

Then he went to breakfast, and on the 
breakfast-table picked up a letter from the 
Pinakothek Director, requesting him to call 
upon him at eleven that morning. 

" You mentioned lately an example of 
Titian* s Parabella in your possession; will 
you kindly allow me to inspect it here?" 

Greatly wondering, Schultz again found 
himself in an ante-room with several other 
shady-looking individuals, two of whom he 
recognized as picture-dealers. After waiting 
a few minutes he was shown into the inner 

" Well," said the Director, " did you bring 
that picture I spoke of ? " 

" No," said Schultz. 

" Why not ? " 

" Because I have sold it. Why should I 
keep a forgery ? The real Parabella is 

" True," responded the Director. " But 
inform me of one thing. Had your copy, 
by any chance, a reparation in the middle ? " 

" I can answer that. It had." 

" Where ? " 

" Under the left breast. A hole mended — 
visible only under microscope." 

Only by a visible effort could the Director 
control his excitement. 

" Schultz," said he, " listen to me. That 
is the canvas for which the trustees will pay 
their original promised reward of fifty 
thousand marks." 

Schultz stood up. His beady eyes looked 
beadier than ever. He knew the Director 
was deceived, but — fifty thousand marks ! 

" I will see," he said, doubtfully, " if I can 
recover it for you." He had only the vaguest 
idea of what he intended to do, but any 
further cogitation was cut short when he 
found himself in the ante-room and con- 
fronted by a wild-eyed, half-dressed maniac 
in the shape of the young Dutchman Vander- 
beck, with a great canvas under his arm. 
which Schultz knew was the Parabella. 

The two confronted one another. 

" Come outside," began Schultz, quietly. 
" I want to speak to you." 

"No! I will not come out. I will see the 


Original from 





Their voices had risen to such a pitch that 
the Director ? alarmed by the hubbub, came 
to the door. At the sight of him Vanderbeck 
tottered forward* 

* f Behold, Herr Director/' he gasped ; 
" here is the Para be 11a. This is the canvas 
I abstracted from the walls on the second of 
May. I hereby restore it— without price. 
Take it, Herr 
Director/* and he 
thrust the canvas 
into the Director's 

In the ante-room 
five men and one 
woman witnessed 
the drama, 

"This young 
man has lost his 
wits 1 " cried one, 
a man in a long 
green coat. " I 
have here the true 
Parabella ! " 

<( Excuse me, 
sir ; the genuine 
Parabella hap- 
pens to be mine," 
spoke up another 
— a dark- featured 
man, very bald. 

"Pardon, I 
have it — here/' 
said another. 

" Listen tome/' 
began the lady, 

roared the Direc- 
tor. " You will 
all drive me to 
distraction. One 
at a time." 

"Perhaps I 
may be permitted 
to speak, Herr 
Director/ 1 said 
Schultz. " This 
young man/ 1 in- 
dicating Vanderbeck, " may or may not 
have removed a portrait of the Parabella 
on the second of May, and this canvas may 
have a reparation in the middle ; but I am 
willing to swear that less than seven years 
ago I sold the bare cloth on which his picture 
is painted to a customer in Munich, and that 
my private shop-mark is still on it— ^ob- 
literated. There ! JT concluded Schultz, lay- 
ing a triumphant forefinger on the corner of 

Digitized byXj* 

the canvas, which the Director held up to the 

Somebody caught poor Vanderbeck just 
in timej or he would have fallen. This 
revelation was too much for him in his weak 
physical state. 

14 Just as I thought/ 3 said the dark^ bald 
man. u I have the true Parabella." 

" Pardon me ; the Parabella, as I said 


before, is here/ 1 interjected the individual in 
the long green coat. 

To the lady who had tried to speak no one 
had hitherto paid any attention, and this 
was the critical moment chosen by her to 
dissolve into a peal of shrill laughter, 

" Madam/' commanded the incensed 
Director, " stop laughing," 

11 Ha, ha ! Ho, ho I " she shrieked, with 

tears in her eves,, .-" I can't- It's too funny, 
..Jhq mar from 




Ha, ha ! How — how many Parabella pictures 
have you all got ? Six — eight — ten ? " 

" Pray., what is that to you, madam P " 

"To me — ha j ha ! — why ? I am Para- 
bella ! » 

At these astounding, absurd words an 
awkward silence fell upon the gaping throng 
in the Director's ante-room, 

" She's crazy/' at last cried one. 

The woman sprang to her feet. The 
laughter fied from her face and she became 
serious — almost stern* 

M Oh, no, I am not crazy. When I tell you 
I am Parabella, I speak the truth. That was 
what ke called me. It was from me that 
Frans von Semels painted this picture forty- 
three years ago. Does anyone remember 
Frans von Semels ? Did anyone ever hear 
of Parabella before then ? Frans painted it 
for King Ludwig of Bavaria, in the Titian 
manner, just to show off his genius. It cost 
him months and months of labour f and then 
when he finished it the King was out of his 
wits, and the Court Chamberlain kept the 
picture and would not pay Frans a pfennig. 
He did a replica , and they laughed at him. 
He sent it as his own to the Academy and 
they refused to have it, and poor Frans took 
to drink and finally blew out his brains. 
Which was a pity, because/' said the speaker, 
with a catch in her voice., " he would have 
married me." 

For a full minute you could have heard a 
pin drop. 

M What proof have you of this story, 
madam?" asked the Director, icily. 

The old woman's fingers were now fumbling 
at a bundle. 

u Proof ? 7 ' she said. li Well, here is the very 
dress in which he painted me. Look and see 
if it is the same* Here is the locket I wore, 
here is the very chain. And here/' she added, 
" here is a car te-de-vi site of myself forty years 
ago. Look and tell me if the Parabella and 
I are not one." 

It was true ; there was no mistaking the 
evidence. In spite of her dimmed eye, her 
dishevelled grey locks, and her bent form, 
the resemblance to the original of the Para- 
bella was still to be traced, 

11 But the original — von Stands' original 
picture ? " 

The woman's lips curled scornfully, 

li I do not know. I do not care. Find 
it if you can. It was sold by the Court 
Chamberlain — curse him — to the Pinakothek 
soon after Frans' death. But it did not hang 
there two years. Every year after that it was 
copied and stolen. It is now all over the earth- 
It is in New York, Budapest, Vienna, Rome, 
London — and the more it is reproduced the 
greater will the name of Frans von Semels be. 
As for me, 1 have kept silence long enough, 
and now the whole world shall know the story 
of the Parabella. Titian, indeed ! Bah ! 
I am off now to the office of the FremdenblaU" 

And it was in the columns of that news- 
paper, you remember, that the foregoing 
strange story first appeared. 

Original from 

'£ •■•>T 

i ^\l^-' 

Fig. 1.—^ When the mail move*, Fit. 2. — protrudrt iti body mid, Fig. 3.— fiom il, then pro jet I* tit Fig- 4, — bearing its 
it first — Urge foe*— head, then iti upper fee (era— then— 

A Natural History 

ts eyes. 


How does it ^^all. Smell, 
and See? 


Author of •' Life Histories of Familiar Plants" * f Peeps Into Natmis 
Ways" " Some Nature Biographies" tie. 

Illustrated with Original Photographs by the Author. 

Fii, 6l— lookout™ life. 

HERE are many features of 
animal life with which the 
naturalist h perfectly familiar, 
and yet which he is quite 
unable to explain. The 
leisurely- moving snail is an 
animal which presents many 
puzzles to the zoologist. 

In the early morning, when the ground 
and vegetation are moist, he comes forth 
from his retreat beneath the rock work, 
or from amongst the ivy., and in a very 
dignified manner proceeds towards the lettuce- 
bed ; that is, unless the gardener has recently 
planted some choice and delicate seedlings 
which will provide him with a more tasty 
breakfast. Indeed, the snail is a great 
connoisseur in the matter of selecting its 
food ; it is always the choicest cabbage or 
the ripest plum or pear which it directly steers 
for. How it learns when the plums in our 
neighbour's garden arc just at their best is 
a difficult problem to explain. That it does 
know is clearly proved by its gleaming night- 
tracks over the wall, and not infrequently 
up the bark of the troes. Occasionally, too, 
when iu ascends a tree, it stays out for the 
night, and for the whole of the next day is 


"glued " down to the bark — an action which 
sadly suggests over- indulgence, for in the 
ordinary way it always returns to its regular 
hiding-place under the stones or beneath the 

Regarding its climbing abilities over walls 
and up the rough bark of trees, that is a 
matter which I shall refer to later ; but, 
while considering the snail's curious power 
of locating its food, it will be well to dis- 
illusion my reader of the idea that it finds 
it merely by accident during the course of 
its wanderings, for, as I have previously 
stated, it steers directly for it, even though it 
may be in the next garden. Moreover, if, 
when the snail is making tracks for a meal, 
that meal is suddenly removed, it is at once 
able to recognize the fact, stopping and 
stretching out its feelers in all directions, as 
if seeking for it. If, on the other hand, the 
snail is removed to another place, it behaves 
in almost exactly the same manner, and 
usually succeeds in again locating the food 
from its new position ; the same applies to 

It may be contended that these animals 
r^re able to scent their food from a distance, 
in whicE'rigieel fitpiis obvious that they 



must be possessed of olfactory organs far 
superior to those of man ; for the food of 
the snail to us often has no sensible odour. 
Yet the only organs in its anatomy which 
appear to serve the sense of smell are some 
minute epidermal cells on the tips of its 
longest pair of feelers, near to its eyes, which 
are also on the tips of these " horns," or 

- Even these epidermal cells are of doubtful 
function, and experiments appear to show that 
some other explanation is possible, revealing 
the danger of making analogies from the 
human body when considering other 
organisms. Since the snail performs sen-, 
sory functions which are to us incompre- 
hensible, there is the possibility that it 
possesses senses which are not analogous 
with our own ; indeed, senses entirely beyond 
our conception. 

Does the snail see its food ? It is safe to 
say that it does not ; for, when hungry and 
approaching food, it will find that food not 
only when it is moved to another place, but 
also if it is hidden from view. Its elevated 
eyes on the tips of its sensitive " horns " are 
pointed in all directions as it travels, and 
every surface with which it comes in contact 
seems to be closely investigated by the tips 
of the feelers ; but, at the same time, it 
often directs these organs upwards into the 
atmosphere, and apparently it examines the 
air around it just as carefully as it does the 
ground or vegetation. 

It is probably when the feelers are elevated 
in the air that it detects its food ; but that 
it does not see it is evident, for a finger 
waved half an inch before one of its sensitive 
feelers does not disturb it. If, however, the 
finger is held closer, but without touching, 
the eye is instantly withdrawn into the 
feeler, and the feeler into the head ; but if 
the experiment is gently performed, only one 
feeler is affected, the other remains extended, 
and apparently it has no knowledge of the 
approaching danger. 

Now, although the feelers are so delicately 
sensitive to the atmosphere or the earth that 
they can scent, or in some way detect, food 
which lies at a considerable distance away, 
yet, as we have seen, they are not sufficiently 
sensitive to recognize a finger when it is waved 
only half an inch in front of them. One 
would think that such delicate organs for 
scenting, or for feeling the vibrations of the 
atmosphere, would detect that the finger was 
before them ; yet they do not appear to do so. 
We have also observed that one eye will 

-Jscognize danger while the other, although 

quite close, fails to observe it. The obvious 
conclusion from this is that the vision of the 
snail is very different to our own, or that it 
is extremely short-sighted. 

If, therefore, we say that the snail sees its 
food, the evidence is against it, especially as 
the simple structure of the eye and its tiny 
lens seem also to point to a defective vision. 
Likewise, if we contend that it possesses a 
keen sense of smell, there is very little 
structural evidence in proof of it ; and also, 
as we have seen, its power in that direction 
must be of a very local character, detecting 
only special odours in a very extraordinary 
manner, for much of the food which it appears 
to smell so readily has to us little or no 
perceptible odour. 

We may therefore say that the senses of 
sight and smell in the snail are very different 
from our own, even if we do not go so far as 
to assume that it possesses other senses not 
analogous with those of man. Of the sense 
of hearing there is still less anatomical proof, 
and sound, as we recognize it, apparently 
has little or no effect upon the snail. 

When, however, we come to the sense of 
taste, the snail is much more human, and we 
are better able to understand it. It is obvious 
to everyone who has grown vegetables and fruit 
that the snail is an epicure of the first order. 
It is always towards the choicest specimen 
in the garden that a well-trained snail directs 
its course. In spite of that fact, the snail's 
anatomy reveals nothing which can be termed 
" taste-buds," or groups of cells associated 
with the sense of taste, such as are found in 
the higher animals. Nevertheless, its prac- 
tical demonstrations in the garden seem to 
show that structural details are not always 
reliable evidence. 

Having, then, briefly considered the snail's 
four senses of taste, smell, sight, and hearing, 
there now remains for consideration its sense 
of touch ; and here we get some curious 

When a snail commences to move, the first 
thing that we observe is its shell being heaved 
up ; then from beneath it appears what we 
popularly term its body, although it is really 
a combination of body and a large, flat, 
muscular foot (Figs, i and 2). Then from the 
fore-part its head appears, followed almost 
immediately by its eye-bearing feelers, which 
protrude from its head (Fig. 3), the eyes being 
drawn upwards from the base, just as we 
should push out the introverted finger of a 
glove. When these feelers are almost ex- 
tended, the lower and smaller pair appear 
(Fig. 4). The snail then starts its locomotive 




machinery, and I use this expression advisedly, 
for until it has set at work some curious and 
complex mechanism within its anatomy it is 
quite incapable of moving; neither can it 
retreat into its shell until that motor-power 
has stopped. Having started its engine, as 
it were, away it glides (Fig, 5), turning here 
and there as it goes, as if intensely interested 
in the surrounding scenery (Fig, 6), although, 
as we have previously observed, it is highly 
probable that it neither sees nor hears any- 

Now j a snail's rate of progression is not 
very exciting; indeed, going at top-speed 
the garden snail covers about twelve feet in 
an hour- The curious fact is that its top- 
speed is always the same. Whether it is 
climbing a wall, the bark 
of a tree, or moving over 
ploughed earth, or on a 
horizontal sheet of glass, 
is quite immaterial ; its 
speed remains the same. 

When we take into con- 
sideration how the various 
surfaces on which we walk 
impede or help our pro- 
gress, the snail's locomo- 
tion becomes a remarkable 
ph enomenon , espec i al 1 y 
when we remember that 
a perpendicular surface is 
as good to it as a hori- 
zontal one. The manner 
in which it can tra% T el at 
an even pace, irrespective 
of its supporting surface , 
is explained on account of 
its slimy secretion. The 
band of mucus (which is 
familiar when it dries as a 
gleaming track) is really the 
surface on which it glides. 
A sufficient quantity of 
the slime being secreted to cover its path, 
the friction then is not between the foot and 
the ground, but between the foot and the 
mucus. As the friction between the latter 
remains constant, the snail can always travel 
at the same pace. 

This, however, does not explain how the 
snail is able to glide along in its own slime, for 
a close examination of its foot will show that, 
when moving^ it is never raised or wrinkled t 
its foot, indeed, acts together with the slime 
as a sucker j and on its close contact depends 
its successful locomotion. 

How the snail really moves is a puzzle that 
needs explanation ; it is a mode of locomotion 

Fit 7" In wilting 

which is quite unique among animals, and its 
action can be readily observed by placing 
the snail on a piece of glass. In Fig. 7 an 
example is shown so placed, and the snail 
is there seen from the underside while it is 

The first point to observe is that the sole 
of its large foot is closely applied to the glass. 
If, when the snail is moving, it is lifted by 
means of its shell, and the glass is not too v 
heavy, the latter will also be lifted ; showing 
that its foot acts somewhat like a sucker. 
The viscidity of the mucus has, of course, 
to be taken into consideration in this connec- 
tion. Also, as it travels, we notice wave-like 
movements continually piissing from back 
to front, some of which are shown in the 
photographs (Figs. 7 and 8), 
As the moves the 
foot shortens behind with 
every commencing wave, 
and advances in front with 
every concluding one, and 
it is quite easy to imagine 
that the waves are wrinkles 
passing through the foot. 
Such, however, is not the 
case ; the transverse waves 
pass through the substance 
of the foot only, leaving 
the sole in close contact 
the whole time. 

That its locomotion de- 
pends on the action of 
these waves is obvious, 
because the moment it 
commences lo move they 
appear, and the instant it 
stops they cease* Also a 
snail cannot move back- 
wards, owing to its loco- 
motor muscles driving 
these waves only in the 
forward direction. If it 
desires to retreat into its shell, speaking in 
motoring parlance, it has to " shut off its 
engine/' Therefore, just how it manages 
to glide along becomes exceedingly difficult 
to explain. 

As I have already remarked^ this form of 
locomotion of the snail family is unique 
among animals, and therefore we cannot get 
any evidence from other animals which will 
assist us in discovering how the snail creeps 
so silently along. Another British animal 
which is able to glide along in a remark* 
able manner is the blind- worm, or slow- 
worm, a_. pretty and legless lizard which is 
perfectly harmless ^nc is often mistaken for a 


lifts 1I1 foot, The rlosrr 
in conl act with th« luiface benealli it, the better 
the tnail can travel. 



Fis, 6. — Whm travel I inn a I top ipeed ill pace is the ume on 4 
sheet tit glau ai wh«n climbing the V»irlt of a tree or a ilooe w.iJI, 

snake as it glides over the moist ground in 
search of slugs. The body of this animal is as 
smooth as glass, owing to the scales which 
cover it. Those scales on the underside are 
connected with its numerous ribs, which are 
hinged to the backbone. In this way when 
a rib is moved it affects the scale to which it 
is attached, tilting it a little this or that way, 
and thus providing a means of creeping. In 
the foot of the snail , however, we have nothing 
but a soft mass of tissue with muscular fibres 
penetrating it in all directions. 

It has been suggested that the snail's move- 
ment may be produced by minute points of 
muscular pressure beingexer ted throughout the 
substance of the foot, causing little castors, as 
it were, each of which gives a tilt forward, thus 
creating a pressure to the fore, which pushes 
the snail and so enables it to glide in its 
secretion, While this suggestion is possible, 
yet it does not account for the wave move- 
ment, unless the muscular action suggested 
only takes place in the wave area. 

The [joint that has particularly struck me, 
while preparing the photographs for this 
article, is how the waves travelling through 
the body of the snail behave exactly like the 
waves which travel from a stone which is 
thrown into a pool, or a sea wave coming 
towards the shore* 

A wave, when once propagated, continues 
to travel outwards in all directions until it 

meets wi:h something that breaks iLs force, as 
the banks of the pool, or the shore, A wave 
never travels backwards ; neither do those 
passing through the body of the snail. If 
the wave movement in the snail was merely 
a muscular action, it is surely reasonable to 
suppose that the snail could control the waves 
passing through its structure ; but when once 
a wave has commenced at its latter part, no 
matter what danger it may be in, that wave 
has to travel the whole length of its body 
(Fig. 8) T and carry it still farther forward* 
All it can do is to stop, or shut off, the gene- 
rating power, and so prevent further waves 

I am inclined to think that the muscular 
fibres contained in the sole of the foot play 
no direct part in the snail* s locomotion, but 
are only used for holding it to its support, 
and for extending from, or withdrawing into, 
its shell. What 1 think really happens is 
that the snail is able to generate waves of 
vital energy from the latter part of its 
anatomy, and that these waves travel direct 
to its fore-parts. Each wave that is thrown 
off seems to carry energy from the tail-end, 
causing it to shorten at that part, and this 
energy then continues its course through the 
foot, expending itself in pressure at the fore- 
edge and causing it to lengthen there ; so 
the snail advances* 

In a previous number of The Strand 
Magazine-; (August, 1910) I dealt more fully 
with the subject of waves, and I there pointed 
out that we could not see a wave because it 
was a form of energy, as are the forces of 

Fis. 9.— Tta turf ace at* whkh it iravdi ii quite immiKritl ; *ven 
ihc rdijr* of roufii-tu-' juk hiive mi ternxt for tin? tn&il'i §oft 




Fig* 10.— It fetrt nd iKe iJi*rpe*i r«oi. nod will, if need be. gracefully climb mod— 

magnetism and electricity ; all wo could see 
was the result of its work, as the agitation of 
the water. When a wave is gentle and finishes 
its course against the shore, it simply ter- 
minates in frothing foam ; but if its energy 
is great and it runs against a rock, we are made 
cognizant of its dissipation by the water 
and spray which is hurled into the air. The 
wavgj gentle or strong, requires no muscle- 
fibres to convey it to the shore ; it travels 
easily through the water from the source of 
its origin. Probably^ too, the energy waves 
generated in the anatomy of the snail are 
able to travel through its soft substance in a 
similar manner ; their regular rushing forward 
and beating against its fore-parts may con- 
stitute a force or pressure which causes it to 
glide in its viscid slime in that graceful manner 
the method of which so puzzles our ingenuity 
to explain. 

Whether my suggestion be correct or other- 
wise, it has at least the merit of accounting 
for the appearance and behaviour of the 
waves visible when the snail moves, and like- 
wise for the shortening of its hind-parts and 
the lengthening of its fore-parts. Finally, tO0j 
it allows of the snail travelling while its foot 
remains in close contact with its supporting 
surface. Also, it is nothing unusual to find 
Nature using a solution of a difficult problem 
in an entirely different direction. The hedge- 
hog, for example, is protected by defensive 
spines ; so are cacti and thistles. The wasp 
has a stinging organ and a bag of formic acid ; 
so has a nettle. Some plants feed on insects ; 
so do birds. If, therefore, a wave of energy 
serves a useful purpose in water or air, why 
should not the principle be adopted in a 
snail ? The snail is a living organism, it 
is true, but science can no more explain 

Rfc II.— ClitJe 9*tl I"* «li 

riginal from 



vital energy than it can that of the waves or 

When photographing the snail for this 
article, I was surprised at the fact that even 
the rough-cut edge of a sheet of glass pre- 
sented no difficulties to its locomotion ; its 
even pace was continued in spite of the fact 
that the sharp corner appeared to be pene- 
trating its body (Fig, 9), There, too, we 
have exhibited the animal's delicate sense of 
touch y and this led me to make the further 
experiment shown in Figs. 10 and 11. 

After I had placed the snail on the butt 
of the razor's blade, it slowly moved along 
the back of the blade, and then climbed com- 
pletely over the sharp edge, the razor being 
in excellent condition. As the successive 
waves brought the fore-part of its foot near 
the edge of the blade, its head was held low 
down, and the lower and shorter pair of feelers 
nearly touched the blade, as if feeling the way. 

At the moment when the sharp edge was 
reached, the small feelers were fully extended 
towards it, and just at the very instant when 
I expected to see them cut off they were both 
instantly retracted. They were little more 
than a hair's breadth away ; and, though the 
lower feelers possess no eyes, yet, by their 
sudden movement I was quite convinced that 
the snail at that instant recognized danger- 
Still the foot travelled on, and slowly the snail 

dragged its whole weight of exactly one and a 
half ounces over the edge^ later moving towards 
the butt and remaining perfectly unharmed. 
The species experimented with was the Roman 
or edible kind, which accounts for its com- 
paratively large weight, it being the largest 
of British snails. 

There is a final consideration regarding the 
hibernating instinct of the snail on which a 
word or two may be written. When the cold 
days approach the snail, like the swallow, 
migrates to a warmer part. It cannot, like 
its winged neighbour, fly to another land; 
but in some mysterious way it selects a 
sheltered spot tn the garden or area in which 
it lives, and to that spot it steadily sets its 
course. The mysterious part of the business 
is that to that same spot all its relatives and 
neighbours just as steadily decamp, and there 
they remain until green food is again available 
(Fig. 12). How all the snails in a garden, both 
big and little, can find one sheltered spot 
(when other even more sheltered spots are 
plentiful) is a point that baffles explanation, 
Since, too, they are cold-blooded animals, 
why do they congregate ? These are two 
little points which I will leave with my 
readers to think over, and in so doing they 
will probably discover that even the move- 
ments of a snail can open up many interesting 
avenues of thought. 

Fifl. 12, — A colcmv of hibernal ins mail*. 

Hizedi by Google 

Original from 



Illlustrated ty C. H. Taffs. 


OW is your father to-day, 
Miss Brakspear ? " 
" No better, Mr. Poole." 
There was a pause, pro- 
nounced, perceptible, ere 
the girl, whose thoughts 
his question had quickened, 
added a belated " Thanks ! " She spoke 
again, saying more than she had intended, 
eager to efface a rudeness which had been 
unmeant. . 

" You see, Netherwich no longer suits him. 
It is harming him — irreparably harming him ; 
he needs a different air. The doctor says 

Buxton — as more bracing " 

. " And you think of taking him there ? " 

" Taking him ? It's impossible — my holi- 
days — a fortnight is no use. He must live 
there altogether — or " 

Margaret Brakspear broke off abruptly, 
uncovered her typewriter, began, in silence, 
her work. The man watched her, saying 
nothing; sat there, pondering many things 
in his black, ambitious heart. He saw her 
good to look upon, loved her in his fashion ; 
yet could not, for the briefest of brief seconds, 
forgive her one never-forgettable thing. To 
her, daily, hourly, came the chance for which 
he schemed. 

She was not an ordinary girl ; the poorest 
judge of character would have known it as 
she sat there at her desk. She had short 
hair — short like Barrie's imperishable Peter, 
not short like a man's hair or a boy's — and 
its thick, dark yellow made a nimbus for her 
head. She had a long nose, like the nose of 
the glorious Siddons; the shortest of short 
upper-lips ; a chin strong and round, not 
shrewish ; white teeth, full cheeks, grey eyes. 
She was tall, large boned yet shapely ; was 
alive with vigour and health. In her — in 
this typist of a Belboro factory — ran the 
blood of Norman barons and of noble Saxon 
thanes. And she worked in that self-same 
building whose rise, whose very existence, 
had been due to her great-grandfather's act. 

He — this great-grandfather — had served 
John Company, and, serving it, had now 
and then come home. Once — since his 

palate urged him — he had driven his buggy 
into Belboro High Street, and had paused 
at a chemist's shop. He had gone in, had 
produced an Eastern recipe, had proffered a 
Voltairean jest, " You have only one sauce 
in this country ; here is another. Will you 
make it up ? " They made it up, not once, 
but many times; they tasted, saw future 
profit ; they put to him their request : "It 
would be selfish to keep this treasure hidden. 
May we sell it — sell it to the public ? It is 
such a pleasant — so excellent a sauce ! " The 
Anglo-Indian, vain and genial, laughed and 
acquiesced. And the two-paged recipe stayed 
in the chemist's hands. Next month its 
owner left for India. He came back again, 
after fifteen years, to find a factory where 
the chemist's shop had stood. And at him, 
asking for recipe and partnership, the erst- 
while chemist laughed. The Aiiglo-Indian 
made no fight for it ; he let things go by the 
board. He was wealthy, old, and slothful ; 
litigation had for him no charms. But his 
son lost his wealth in the Australian bank 
crash ; and his grandson, who painted pic- 
tures, caught rheumatism in the fingers, and 
straightway painted no more. He removed 
Margaret from Cheltenham, two years before 
her time; settled at Netherwich; bought an 
annuity with the slender capital that was left 
him ; took baths, which failed to cure. 
Margaret had to seek employment. In 
Netherwich there was none. She learned 
typewriting and shorthand ; took train to the 
county town. The rest was easy; the 
poorest judge of character would have en- 
gaged her by her chin. 

And the first firm whose advertisement she 
answered was Glegg and Son, makers of 
sauce. For necessity knows no sentiment, 
and bread and butter comes before all. 

" Brakspear — Brakspear ! " had said the 
junior partner, who had interviewed her. 
" You belong " — he spoke half jestingly — 
" you belong to the Meadshire branch? " 

" That is so," she had answered ; and she 
had told him all he asked, had seen him smile, 
unblushing, at this cynical trick of Fate. 
But he engtigerf her promptly. Her creden- 




tials were good, her appearance was a testi- 
monial ; and, so that she was efficient, no 
matter whence she sprang. 

She was efficient ; the firm soon recognized 
it, and, in its unfairness, not unfairly, paid. 
Save that she dressed like a gentlewoman — 
that, having few clothes, she had them good 
and well-cut — she spent nothing on herself ; 
spent everything upon her father's would-be 
cure. Massage, electricity, vibration proved 
useless in Iheir turn. She was pouring her 
self-sacrifice into a dark abyss of waste. 

These things, and more than these — her 
love for her father, her devotion to him, her 
misery at, her helplessness to alleviate, the 
sick man's lot — these things had come, bit 
by bit, to the knowledge of the man — the 
colleague — who watched her working at her 
typewriter now. And it seemed to him that, 
though he had known how to wait these many 
years, he was waiting vainly ; that if he 
waited longer his chance of forcing a partner- 
ship would be gone for ever ; that Jacob 
Glegg, octogenarian, half-blind and three- 
parts deaf, would be replaced by a purchaser, 
by some new and keen young man. Alone 
he — Poole — could not come at that which he 
sought for ; with Margaret's help he might. 
If they worked together, won the day to- 
gether, he could marry her and hold victory 

And now the lever — her father's illness — 
the lever which should drive her to dis- 
honesty, lay ready to his scheming hand. 

He spoke, his eyes fixed sidelong ; he shot 
at her the poisoned, tempting dart. 

" It's a shame ! " he said, and put into his 
voice a thrill of spurious sympathy. " It's 
a shame, Miss Brakspear ; it's a wicked, 
scandalous shame ! " 

She looked up from her typewriter, stayed 
by his interruption ; stared at him, failed to 

" A shame ! What's a shame ? I don't 
understand you, Mr. Poole. I " 

" Why, that you should work here— you 
whose father is such a sufferer — whose father, 
as everyone knows, ought to be a partner 
in the firm. We all know how the Gleggs 
started — all Belboro knows it ; how they 
stole — yes, stole — the recipe your great- 
grandfather lent. It's monstrous, Miss Brak- 
spear — monstrous. And if I were you " 

He paused, deliberately ; to tempt her 
into speech. 

" If you were me ? " — she, too, paused ; 
glimpsing but dimly at the dark thing that 
he schemed. " If you were me ? " 

He stayed silent, rose to his feet, walked 

towards the fireplace, stood, back to it, hand 
thrust in coat-flap, brows frowning, eyes and 
mouth compressed, looking, more than ever, 
like the great Corsican to whom he cultivated 
that ambition-firing resemblance which Nature 
had bestowed. Then he spoke ; poured 
forth his evil counsel, premeditated, long 
thought out. 

" If I were you — I would find that recipe — 
where Jacob Glegg keeps it — in his safe — or 
in his room. I know it's there — for I once 
saw him — holding it in his hand. And you — 
you're his secretary — he's careless — careless 
and blind." 

" Find the recipe — the recipe for the 
sauce ? " 

" Yes — find it — find it — and — and — come 
into — into your own ! " 

" You mean " — her voice came to him, 
almost a whisper, yet tense, staccato, clear ; 
" you mean — I should steal it— steal it ? 
I don't understand." 

Poole came away from the fireplace, 
crossed the floor to her, stood above her, 
unfolded, lay bare his scheme. " Stealing- 
it wouldn't be stealing — it would be justice — 
after all these years. The old Gleggs robbed 
your father of the recipe — you would win it 
back — it would be justice, I tell you, Miss 
Brakspear — justice — nothing but that. And 
your father " — he spoke very slowly, devilishly 
emphasizing his words — " your father — could 
go — to Buxton — to — get — well ! " 

" Get well — my father ! " The curtain 
was up now, the prologue spoken ; she saw 
how the act might aid her, but not the 
drama's end. " How should the recipe help 
him ? What could I do if I found it ? The 
Gleggs would take it from me. I'm a woman 
— and alone." 

" A woman — yes ; alone — no" He faced 
her — she had risen — across the dividing desk. 
" You have me — me to help you. I can do 
all you need." 

" You ! " 

" Yes, I — Miss Brakspear, Miss Brakspear." 
The man's arms waved, his hands gesticulated, 
he poured at her the secret, long-checked 
torrent of his ambitious heart and soul. 
" With me to help you, there's no limit to 
your fortunes ! You — I — we — may go far, I 
tell you — far ! Get it — get the recipe — get 
it from that blind old dotard — get it — bring 
it to me ! I'll take it to them, show it them, 
brave them, dare them, make them give me 
a partnership ! I can dictate terms to them — 
their secret — the secret of the finest sauce in 
Europe — is worth saving at any cost. Jacob 
Glegg must go. John Glegg will stay — with 




me for second partner — with tne to push the 
business as it was never pushed before. Then 
you can leave — marry me " 

" Marry you I " 

The torrent of his ambitions, pent-up, 
unspoken for a decade, rushed onwards, 
knowing no check nor stay. " I'm a clerk — 
a clerk now — but I'm a worker — I can look 
into the future — I can see things far ahead ! 
Not a woman in the county but shall envy 
you ! I'll work for you — with you ; there's 
no limit to what a man may do if he works ! 
And your father — your father — can be saved 
if you find that recipe — if you find it — and 
bring it to me I But if Mr. Jacob has a stroke 
— or an illness — before you find it — and a 
young man buys a partnership — there'll be 
no chance for us — and — you know it — your 
father will die ! " 

He ceased. The torrent found her speech- 
less, as it had left him without breath ; she 
had no words to meet it ; its strength had 
made her dumb. From the first — for these 
ten years — she had accepted the situation in 
which she had found herself ; that place of 
subordination whereas, of right, she should 
rule ; she had worked — and denied herself — 
had never, for an instant, thought of turning 
that place to a selfish end. That anyone 
could so dream of her doing it — that this man 
should dare to tempt her — this traitor want to 
marry her, make a catspaw of her, mould her, 
bend and twist her to his own ambitious 
schemes — the thought, the knowledge revolted 
her, turned her shuddering, faint, and sick. 

Then she found tongue, flashed out at him, 
showed him how much she despised. 

" You must be mad — mad to say such 
things ! I could never marry you — I would 
never do what you say ! It's infamous ; 
simply infamous ; infamous — how can you 

He answered nothing ; only bent on her 
those searching eyes of his, stood there across 
the dividing table, hand in coat-flap, furrow- 
ing those Napoleonic brows. Then he used 
the lever — the lever which should lift her to 
his will. 

" If you find the recipe — you find justice. 
If you forbear — injustice triumphs. You 
cannot leave your employment — your father 
stays at Netherwich — and, Miss Brakspear, 
your father dies ! " 

" My father ! " — she winced, she staggered, 
caught at a friendly chair-back — mouthed 
the. words once more. " My father — dies ! 
It is not so ; he isn't — as ill — as that ! " 

"He is — and you know it." The man's 
voice, but now impassioned, had recovered 

coldness, came chill. " Get the recipe — and 
get justice ; find it — and you save him ! Be 
weak — dare nothing — and — you know it — 
he dies ! " 

The words, deliberate, cruel, stabbed her 
with the dagger of truth. Again she stag- 
gered ; again she found her balance, forced 
herself to the fullness of her height, 

" Better he died than that I should do 
what you ask me," she made answer. " It is 
infamous — infamous. I refuse." 

" You refuse ! " He stopped in the speak- 


saw that she meant what she said. A 

blind hate came over him — that hate which 
is sister to love. He could have struck her, 
stunned her, killed her, in his wrath at her 
folly. He saw the years flash past him — 
long years of scheming, in vain. And he 
saw another thing also ; became, now, thrall 
to fear. What if this girl — this fool-woman — 
were to take her tale to the Gleggs ? -He had 
been mad — mad to tell her — he who had 
waited should have waited longer — for the 
chance that had eluded him so long. And 
now he had put himself — his future — all 
that he had dreamed of — in the hands of a 
girl who might ruin him with a word. Muzzle 
her — frighten her — he must do something — 
do it quickly. He essayed to frighten her 

" If you dare " 

Ping-g-g ! 

Poole started, turned, glanced upward, 
saw a black square flick into the indicator ; 
knew himself wanted in John Glegg's distant 
room. He turned back, began to speak again, 
blustered out his threat, " If you dare to 
mention a word of this — if you breathe a 
syllable to anyone, I'll say " 

Ping-g-g ! 

Another square flicked beside its fellow ; 
again George Poole turned round. Margaret 
Brakspear — the bell had summoned her — 
snatched at a note-book, took a pencil from 
the table, pulled the door open, and was gone. 
Poole stepped forward to stay her ; it was 
too late ; she was running down the corridor 
to the senior partner's room. And the man, 
who had staked his all and jeopardized it, 
cursed her and went out. Yet, as he went, 
fear left him; he was now nothing afraid. 
For he knew — since he gave himself time to 
think of it — that she, Margaret Brakspear, 
was not of the stuff which betrays. She 
would only, in her folly, seek to safeguard 
her employers ; his own rash haste had raised 
a barrier to his aims. And he, too, hurried 
down the corridor to the junior partner's 


9 o 


" Good morning, Mr. Jacob." 

The old man, facing Margaret , heard 
nothing, but saw the moving lips ; read the 
familiar greeting ; gave her good morning in 
turn. She sat down at the table while he 
opened the letters of the day ; while he held 

one — on the usual lines. Take this to the 
blending foreman. This is for the vegetable 
depot — so is this one— here's another for the 
blending foreman. One — oh ? here are two 
others for the liquids branch. Now, Miss 
!Rrak spear, fa r +Vi e letters. Got your note- 


them close to his nose as he read them with 
spectacled, rheumy eyes; while he plucked 
perpetually at his white and straggling beard. 
As he finished each letter, so he passed it 

" This is for Mr. John, Miss Brakspear ; 
and this — and this — and this. Answer that 

by Google 

book ? Are you ready ? Very well" And 
he began to dictate, altering eternally, revis- 
ing, hesitating, beard-plucking, getting up, 
walking the floor unsteadily ; the whole of 
him one large example of an obstinate old 
autocrat who has outstayed his capacity for 

Original from 




Margaret Brakspear, long used to his 
doddering, took down the words as they 
came. She did it easily, mechanically ; but 
while she wrote she thought; the pencil 
moved to the accompaniment of a whirling 
brain. She had opposed brave words to the 
traitor ; but the words of the traitor stayed. 
She thought of them unceasingly — she realized 
their truth. He had, in his devilish insight, 
found the lever to lift her to crime. Her 
father — whose care was her religion— what 
Poole had said was true. In her hands — her 
hands only— her father's safety lay. The 
price of that safety was a deed of blackest 

" Be weak — dare nothing — and he dies ! " 

And that room — where she had worked 
each morning — where, day in, day out, year 
after year, she had seen Mr. Jacob open his 
letters and had taken down Mr. Jacob's 
replies — became, now, a donjon of dark 
imaginings ; a home of black temptation ; a 
place of torment, terrifying, poisonous ; 
where training sagged and moral courage 
weakened, and where evil dreams were 
urging her to crime. 

" Be weak — dare nothing — and he dies ! " 
. It was true — true — it bore no denying — and 
in the room — within reach of her — lay the 
medicine that would cure. In the desk ; in 
a drawer of it — in one of its pigeon-holes — in 
the safe in the corner, most likely, the balsam 
was hidden ; the balsam which, used as Poole 
had urged her, would take her father to 
Buxton, stay his illness, if not expel it — 
would keep him out of pain — and alive. It 
would be easy — oh, so easy — with her oppor- 
tunities — with the trust that was bestowed 
on her — to steal the keys^ to filch the secret 
from this old, self-confident, blundering, half- 
blind man. And, in her, filial piety fought 
with honour and upbringing ; honour and 
upbringing, weakened yet still unvanquished, 
clung to the stricken field. 

" That is all ; I shall not want you any 
longer — for an hour or so. I am going into 
the spice-room with Mr. John." 

" Yes, Mr. Jacob — very good " (the spice- 
room — where hy, said rumour, the keystone 
of the secret — he would take, if rumour was 
not false, the recipe to his aid !). " Yes, Mr. 
Jacob." And Margaret Brakspear was gone, 
thanking her God that a barrier was opposed 
to temptation ; that, since Jacob Glegg must 
take the recipe with him, no desperate, irre- 
sistible impulse would make her search in 
his office while he was away. She felt — why 
she knew not — that if she could but resist 
temptation now she could resist it always: 


that she would be strong, and safe against 
herself when she had once escaped into the 
air. And taking, as of daily custom, the 
letters to the branches of the factory, she 
traversed room and corridor at hasty, break- 
neck speed. And it seemed to her that she 
fled from something tangible, some monster, 
half-spectre and half-human, who pursued 
her as she went. But at the end of the first 
long corridor she went into the junior partner's 

She knocked, she entered ; she handed 
over her budget. John Glegg, a man of 
forty, gave her brief good day. He was hard 
and shrewd; saddled with the work of 
two men, since his father was a drag upon the 
wheel. He saw in Margaret nothing but a 
typist — a good one, a girl who saved trouble, 
helped a doddering greybeard through. But 
her looks were nothing to him ; he never 
noticed them ; she was an underling — and 
no more. 

" Thank you ! " The words came sharp 
and expressionless. Margaret Brakspear 
turned and went out. But first she saw 
Poole's face — John Glegg was dictating letters 
to him — saw and read that which his eyes 
and close-shut lips shouted silent yet clamo- 
rous to her ears. 

" Be weak — dare nothing — and he dies ! " 

And she fled from temptation as a wild 
animal flees from a forest fire. 

She went on her round, made tour of the 
clangorous building, took letters from roof to 
floor ; through the vegetable, fruit, and blend- 
ing depots, to the bottling-room, packing- 
room, labelling-chamber, liquids depot, to 
foreman after foreman in turn. In the 
bottling-room girls in dozens were sitting 
holding bottle upon bottle at little taps to 
which hoses were fastened, and the hoses 
ran into green and yellow painted tubs, and 
above the tubs were pumps and more hoses 
which ran into the cellars beneath. In the 
blending-room were vats, vast, churn-con- 
taining, recumbent ; and unceasingly men 
came and poured into them vinegar and 
pulped ingredients, from pickles to garlic, 
and from garlic to spices and fruit. Each 
foreman knew only what referred to his own 
depot ; no foreman knew what his fellows 
knew — not one of all the dozen knew what 
proportion went, finally, into these churn- 
containing vats, or what ultimate magic was 
used by the partners of nights. Only Poole 
knew all these things, plucked and pieced 
together by incredible ferreting and care. 
But they were worth nothing without the 
recipe which told what happened in the spice 




room, what crowned and capped the making 
of the sauce. No stranger was ever allowed 
in the factory ; none save Jacob and John 
Glegg had ever seen the recipe, though many 
a rival maker had offered bribes to hand and 
foreman for those priceless details which 
Margaret's ancestor had left. It was a secret, 
close, inviolable, guarded by those two men. 

As she passed through the building, hurried 
through room after room, the value of the. 
recipe loomed in front of her ; and temptation 
ran behind. She saw herself with it ; saw 
what she could do ; how she — excitement 
brought faith to her — could then beard the 
partners alone, demand compensation, bend 
them to her will. Poole — Poole was out of 
it ; she could act, unaided, alone. 

While, ever urging her, came the words 
which Poole had flung : — 

" Be weak — dare nothing — and he dies ! " 

She was in the cellars now, in the vaults 
where the sauce stood maturing in the big 
and metal-bound casks, lying on smooth 
rails that they might be rolled backwards 
and forwards at intervals that a perfect 
blending should be found. Five years at 
least each cask lay there — sometimes ten, 
fifteen, twenty-five. For the Belboro sauce 
is like brandy, and long keeping is its cachet, 
since it grows ripe and mellow with age. 
There is no sauce in the world like it ; it 
stands unrivalled, alone. 

The last letters were given to the burly 
foreman, who, even then, superintended the 
rolling of his casks. Margaret nodded a 
good morning, ran up the white-washed 
staircase, passed through the labelling depart- 
ment, with its long rows of paste-pots, 
brushes, and paper-sticking girls, took a lift 
to the next storey, reached, and went into, 
her room. At her, as she entered, Poole 
glanced suddenly, as suddenly looked away ; 
said nothing, bent over his desk. Margaret 
sat down ; she, too, attacked her letters, 
forced herself into close and strenuous work. 
But whenever she looked up it seemed that 
Poole was watching : watching her with eyes 
that were fearful, treacherous, furtive; or 
searching, angry, and hard. No word passed 
between them ; each hated the other, each 
had fear of speech. Only the typewriters 
sounded, clicking, jerking, jabbering ; paper 
rustled, erasers rubbed the page. An hour 
passed, an hour of thought and conflict ; 
quick ended, hard to endure. Through it all, 
though Poole was silent, Margaret heard 
Poole's voice : — 

" Be weak — dare nothing — and he dies ! " 

So training and temptation held their 

by Google 

tug-of-war. And at last the door opened and 
Jacob Glegg looked in. With him came 
scents, sweet and very pungent, the clinging 
scents of the spice-room with their odours 
faint and strong. 

"Oh— er— Miss Brakspear ! " Old J%cob 
was plucking, as ever, at his beard. " I left 
the — er — firm's pass-book on my table. Will 
you fetch it along ? I'm going to look through 
the counterfoils in Mr. John's room. Bring 
it to me — there ! " 

" Yes — Mr. Jacob." Margaret rose to her 
feet. Jacob Glegg gave Poole a glance — a 
glance of almost ludicrous hatred (he hated the 
man, perhaps because his son liked him ; he 
would not have him near his person or room)— 
then went out up the long corridor to his 
son's room. His own room was at the other 
end of it, so arranged for purposes of access 
to the various branches and for purposes, too, 
of control. The secretaries' room — where 
Poole and Margaret worked — lay in the middle 
of the corridor, equidistant from Jacob and 

Margaret, going in the opposite direction, 
came to her destination, opened the door, 
crossed to the table, sought that for which 
she had been sent. And she saw on the table 
the white and parchment-covered book. She 
picked it up mechanically ; turned to go ; 
then stopped short, stayed by the pass-book's 
lightness— by its absence of bulk and weight, 
for she had seen it, that very morning — and 
it had been bulging with paid cheques. 
There, in the middle of the room, she turned 
it over, looked at the table, saw no other book 
like it, marvelled, had her doubts. It was 
the pass-book — it was a pass-book — it was — 
no, it hadn't the firm's name on it — it bore 
a large, inked, manuscript R. She slipped 
the flap from its socket, and the book opened 
in the middle — as it had been opened a thou- 
sand times. And in the handwriting of Jacob 
Glegg — as he had written, perhaps at his 
father's dictation, sixty years ago — she read — 
and knew : — 
" Guy Brakspear's Recipe for Making Sauce" 

The title glared at her — in Jacob Glegg's 
copperplate characters — the substance leaped 
to her eyes. There were two pages of it, and 
at the foot of each page a line was written in 
red. Those two lines were the key to every- 
thing ; the secret of the incomparable 
flavour, envied, vainly imitated, achieved by 
no other firm. Margaret Brakspear's eyes 
devoured them ; her brain photographed 
them ; she read them, re-read them, was 
staggered by their simplicity, could never, 
so long as she lived, forget. Then, mechani- 

Original from 



callyj she turned over page after pagtf. All 
save those two were blank & Biit irk the 
pocket — the pocket that every pass-book has 
—her fingers, how the slaves of instinct, found 
that which she had known must be there. 

And before her, on the table, lay a sheet of 
note-paper , faded , age-smelling, torn by long- 
folding — covered with a flowing, Victorian 
handwriting : one which those family archives. 

Rrakspear, the wronged man's great-grand- 
daughter, held Glegg and Son in the hollow of 
her hand. 

She held ; and, holding them, she knew 
what she would do P All was made easy for 
her j her trouble was at an end. A thief in 
thought she might be, had been ; a thief 
in deed she could never become ; training, 
heredity were a thousand times too strong. 


now her crippled father's lonely pleasure, 
held in such abundance : the handwriting 
of Guy Brakspear, servant of John Company, 
whose recipe— tfw-F recipe — the chemist Glegg 
had filched. The real pass-book lay in the 
safe, behind her, Jacob Glegg had locked it 
there, thinking it was this. Now Margaret 

by LiOOgle 

All temptation left her, now that she had her 
chance. Her father — her luve for him — they 
were everything to her ; so much that she 
would not set his teaching to shame. Life 
was too dearly purchased at such a price as 
that. Presently she would tell him ; pre- 
sently he would approve — she had had her 
Original from 




opportunity and she relinquished it — it was, 
in fact, among the things that one didn't do. 
One of the things that one did do was to take 
it to the partners — with the truth. So, very 
quietly, very composedly, she restored the 
sheet of paper to the book's pocket, shut the 
book itself, took the flap-piece in her fingers, 
fitted it to the socketed place. 

But, as she fitted it, the door went swiftly 
wide. She stopped, half dropped the book, 
caught it — and looked up. And a man came 
in and the door was closed, and eyes frowned 
at her in a head hung forward, and a hand 
rested between the rolled lapels of a double- 
breasted coat. 

There was silence, utter silence, as tHey 
watched each other ; neither one of them, 
for the moment, could find words. The table 
was between them ; a chair on either side 
of it, and at a chair-back his right, her left, 
hand had clutched. Poole's eyes were light- 
ing, changing ; the pose of the conqueror 
passing; he looked hungry, wolfish, wild. 
Within his reach — he knew it — was the 
recipe ; he had stolen in to look for it while he 
believed Margaret — who had dallied, reading 
it — to have taken the pass-book up to John 
Glegg's room. And the recipe was in the 
hands of this woman — who must have read it 
— who — his eyes grew dark and evil ; showed 
the lust of ambition that devours. 

He advanced a step. Margaret Brakspear 
retired one ; then recovered her ground. 
Poole spoke, leaning half-way across the table, 
both hands on it ; and his voice came hoarse 
and low : — 

"You've got it, Miss Brakspear. You've 
got it, I say ! " 

" Got what, Mr. Poole ? " It was the 
instinct of the woman to dissemble and con- 
ceal. But in a righteous cause. 

" Got — why, you've got the recipe." His 
hand flashed forward ; an accusing fore- 
finger pointed at what she held. " The old 
fool's done it — I knew it — I've waited for it — 
I saw him with it once. I watched — I watched 
for weeks— but he got suspicious — he won't 
have me in his room. I knew he'd mix it up 
with the proper pass-book some day — that 
he'd put the pass-book, not (hat, into 
the safe. Give it me, quickly ; give it me, 
I say ! " 

Her voice, as she made her answer, was 
calm, courageous, curt. 

"I am going to give it to the partners. 
Let me pass, please. I must take it to them 

" The partners." Poole's voice rose at her, 
snarled like a wolf's at bay. " You're going 


to take that to the partners — to give up — 
what's worth thousands — tens of thousands ! " 

"What else — it belongs — please let me 

" Let you pass. By Heaven, no — I'll " 

He took a step backward, set himself, still 
facing her, against the door. Then his voice 
changed suddenly, became wheedling, per- 
suasive, soft. 

" You don't understand — you can't — 
women never do understand. Haven't you 
any ambition ? It's riches — riches and power. 
With this recipe we can do anything, any- 
thing. I will marry you " 

11 Marry me ! You are insolent. Open 
the door at once." She faced him, fear 
devouring her, yet courage conquering fear. 

One second he hesitated ; he gave her one 
last word. 

" Your father — are you going to kill him — 
to see him slowly die ? " 

For answer Margaret Brakspear's fore- 
finger touched the button on the table's top — 
the button of that bell which was now ringing 
furiously in John Glegg's room, summoning 
father and son, telling them that something 
ill was in act. And Poole recoiled at the 
daring of her ; made calculation with teeming 
brain, scared eyes, and twitching lips. " Two 
hundred feet of corridor-^-an old man and a 
younger man ; their moment of hesitation — 
the obstacles in their way. Two minutes ; 
three minutes; there was time — still time." 
Ambition, nursed in secret, fed with dream 
and book, does not die without a fight. 
And upon Margaret, standing there beside 
the table, finger still pressing on the far- 
clamouring bell, the man Poole came, fiercely ; 
savage, determined, bent upon his way. 

" Give me the book, I tell you ! Give me 
the book ! " 

At her arm, thrown upwards, his hand 
clutched, dragging it downwards, gripping, 
wrenching the wrist. But the book was hers 
still, clasped tightly, doubled now — for all 
its stiff covering — in her right hand ; with 
her left she warded him off (as a Rugby three- 
quarter hands off his tacklers), inspired by 
who knows what recollection of oft-seen 
Cheltenham games. He pulled at her right 
hand ; he sustained her left hand's blows. 
Then, suddenly, he caught her left wrist ; 
had it prisoned, pulled her to a stooping 
posture, brought the prize more close. 

" Now, you she-devil ! Now I " 

He relinquished her left wrist, set his free 
hand on the right one — both hands were 
gripping it now — twisted the wrist as a bully- 
ing schoolboy uses j then loosed a hand again, 




clenched fist, and struck blow after blow upon 
the muscles of the upper arm. 


The book fell from fingers that pain made 
powerless ; with a howl of triumph Poole 
stooped to pick it up* But, as he stooped, 
he freed her ; and she, in turn stooping, 
pushed him rolling to the floor ; set foot upon, 
stood over the thing 
which she had 
dropped. And as 
Poole recovered 
himself — to come 
again — the door 
was dashed open, 
banging him back 
to the floor. 

M What does this 
mean ? Mr. Poole 
—Miss Brakspear 
— what does it 
mean ? " 

" It means " — 
Poole was on his 
feet again j accusing, 
minatory. "It 
means that Miss 
Brakspear — your 
recipe, sir- — I was 
only just in time," 
And the man 
pointed at the half- 
hidden, foot- 
covered book. 

" The recipe — 
good God, Poole!" 
John Glegg stooped 
floorwards ; Mar- 
garet stepped back- 
wards, and the 
precious thing was 
in the partner's 
hand. "Miss Brak- 
spear , we sent you 
for the pass-book." 

"Yes"— the girl 
was panting fiercely. 
" Yes — the pass- 
book — that was 
what I came to fetch 
—but I found thai 
— I was going to bring it to you — but he" — 
she pointed scornfully to Poole — " A* came 
in — and tried to steal it — - M 

" It's a lie ! " The blade of falsehood 
flashed and fell heavily upon the stout buckler 
of truth. u It's a He, sir— it's a lie ! " , 

"It's truth, I tell you— truth,. Mr, Glegg! 
1 wouldn't give it him — he asked me to mirry 

him — him 93 — her voice took on the last 
possible timbre of contempt — " and then — 
he tried to take it from me — and I rang the 
bell ! " 

" 1 rang it I *' 

" I rang, Mr, Glegg. Look— look at my 
wrist I" Her voice pealed out like a clarion, 
truth -hold ing, doubt-shattering, sincere. 

"And my arm, too, 

Mr. Glegg, 

Look — 





look at this!" 
her haste she 
her blouse's 
from Its link, 

John Glegg looked 
first at her, then at 
Poole — and stepped 
forward to see the 
bruise*, the last 
least doubt in him 
gone- That moment 
was Poole's salva- 
tion; it saved him 
from prison and dis- 
grace. He wheeled, 
he ducked, he 
dived ; slipped like 
an acrobat to the 
door. Outside an 
old man opposed 
him ; the old man 
was easily passed, 
The Napoleon of 
the sauce factory — 
l he man who meant 
to get on ? anyhow, 
and at anybody's 
expense — was done 
with ; he had staked 
his all — and lost. 
In the room which 
had been his Mos- 
cow Margaret Brak- 
spear had dropped 
into a chair, John 
Glegg was standing, 
watching her. Jacob 
Glegg } just entered, 
beard - plucking, 
rheumy- eyed, dod- 
dered questions out* 
" W-what's the matter — w-what's Poole 
been doing — w-w-what does it all mean ? n 

" It means " — John Glegg was looking at 
Margaret's bruises ; but his voice was merci- 
less, unavoidably cruel, since it hammered 
home that truth which the old man had so 
obstinately denied*-." It means, father, that 
you're past work now -that you did what IVe 





so often warned you against — that ydii left 
the recipe about. You put the pass-book in 
the safe, and left the other on the table 
where Miss Brakspear found it just now. 
Poole tried to steal it — and Poole — thank 
Heaven ! — was foiled. But it might happen 
— happen again, and the firm would be done 
for — for good. You must give it up, sir. 
You're past business. I tell you you must 
give it up." 

The old man, sitting now at the table, pen- 
fingering, feet-shuffling, beard-plucking un- 
ceasingly, mumbled his son's words. 

" The wrong book — the pass-book in the 
safe — the recipe — give it up — what — eh, give 

it up ? Business — beyond it " He broke 

off, sat there, turning it all over, his brain too 
old, too tired, any longer to fight against con- 
vincing fact. He had been obstinate very 
long; but, up against concrete instance of 
his incompetence, he had no strength to battle 
on. " Beyond it — well — perhaps — perhaps I 
am." The admission came from him grudg- 
ingly ; there followed the question prompted 
by that jealousy which had kept him from 
retirement all these years. " What are you 
going to do, John ? How will you manage ? 
There must be two." 

•His son made no answer ; stood there, 
watching Margaret's face. And at last he 

" You read the recipe, Miss Brakspear ? " 

She looked up ; she gave him all the truth. 

" I did. I read it in the book— and I read 
the — the paper, too. The first I couldn't 
help reading. The second — well, I thought 
I had a right. But I was — I was bringing 
the book to you — to tell you the truth — not 
to make use of it — at the moment when Poole 
came in." 

" Yes," John Glegg made answer. " Yes, 
Miss Brakspear, I see." 

There followed a silence, fateful, pregnant, 
long. John Glegg sat down at the table, 
stayed there, watching Margaret, fighting 
things out in his heart. And he, to whom 
her looks had been nothing, who had seen 
her as his typist, his father's confidential 
clerk, now saw her as a woman beautiful, 
full of character, aristocrat unquestioned, 
the holder and defender of the secret which 
was the breath of his business life. He saw 
more than that, saw that, typist or no typist, 
her birth, her brains, her beauty would unlock 
that gate of county society which had been 
fastened against him all his pushful days. 
His commercial instinct leaped and con- 
quered him, showed him what seemed the 
easiest, cheapest way. 
— [ 

" Will ytfii niirfy md, MiSs Bfdtcspeaf ? " 
he asked. And he Idoked at his falther ds \i& 
spoke ; and the senile eyes gleamed and thg 
ancient head nodded, and the waxy fingers 
plucked at the straggling beard. In Jacob 
Glegg's opinion his son did rightly. It was 
— it was the only way — save one. 

" Marry you, Mr. Glegg ? I'm honoured — 
obliged — enormously. But — but I can't. You 
can trust me to keep my knowledge to 

John Glegg nodded, knew finality in her 
answer, saw that she would not change her 
mind. And again he consulted his father 
with a look. The eyes did not gleam this 
time, but the ancient head nodded and the 
fingers plucked harder than ever at the beard. 
John Glegg nerved himself to the inevitable 

She was a woman — he a man, keen, versed 
in business, shrewd in judgment and deed. 
And he knew her value, could see her, as his 
wife, bringing him, by her birth, her looks, 
her qualities, distinction and prestige. But, 
for all his admiration, he had no belief in her 
reticence. He saw her beautiful, knew that 
other men must find her so ; had the certainty 
that she would marry ere long. And she had 
his secret, the secret of the world-famed 

" Father," he said, suddenly, " you must 
give up work now ; you know that, as well 
as I. We must take a new partner — other- 
wise we can't make our sauce. And Miss 
Brakspear knows our secret, and has served 
the firm well. I think — if we offered her a 
share — a small partnership — it would not be 
altogether amiss. Tell me, father, what do 
you say ? " 

" I say ' Yes/ " said Jacob Glegg, quickly. 
" She's a good girl— I say < Yes.' " 

" And you, Miss Brakspear ? What do 
you say to that ? " 

Miss Brakspear said nothing immediately ; 
she was flushed and hot-faced, she was furious, 
she was fighting things, battling them out. 
She had been offered marriage — because she 
had been mistrusted. She was offered a 
partnership for the self-same cause. She 
ought — she ought to refuse it, spurn it, show 
them her contempt. 

And yet — and yet — and yet There 

was pride, but there was her father — her 
father, who came before all things; her 
father, for whom she had sacrificed herself 
whole-heartedly, yet who must die in agony 
at Netherwich if she let this partnership go. 
And there was sentiment as well — the senti- 
ment of justice — of a Brakspear, after years 




of treachery, come back to a Brakspear's own, 
Then , before she made decision she flashed a 
question at the pair, 

11 Do you offer it — as an act of justice— or 
as a bribe to hold my tongue ? " 

accept the partnership/* answered Mar- 
garet Brakspear, promptly, Then, know- 
ing that she had won her victory fairly, 
she made her victory secure. " I will 

'phone to your solicitors now. 



John Glegg started, went white, and then said, and she caught up the receiver from 

went red, the desk, 

11 As an act of justice/' he stammered ; Again John Glegg started, half-uttered, 

u as an act of justice, of course.* ! half- re pressed an oath, frowned , glanced at 

And he looked at his father, who nodded his father, then shrugged his shoulders and 

and plucked his beard. smiled. After all, business was business — 

w In that case I shall be pleased to and initiative a thing to be praised ! 

Vol. xlLii.-7. 

by Google 

Original from 



King 3 College, London, 

[" Is love a disease ? " An eminent scientific man says " Yes, in many 
cases/' and discusses its nature, symptoms, and remedy,] 

THERE are at 
■ least two hun- 
dred and sixty-two 
scientific theories on 
the nature of love, 
not to mention the 
innumerable private 
opinions of indivi- 
duals. Seeing that 
it is the most end- 
less of subjects, we 
need not wonder at 
this. Indeed, some 
would have us be- 
lieve that its problem 
is identical with that 
of life itself, and 
that, could we but solve 
the mystery of lo\t, the 
scheme of the universe 
would be clearly revealed. 
As everyone knows, 
most of the explanations 
hitherto attempted have 
been physiological in 
nature, being centred 
about the physical causes 
and effects of the attrac- 
tion between the two 
sexes. It is not my inten- 
tion in the present article 
to consider this aspect of 
the question, My task 
will be to show that the 
mental phenomena in- 
volved — the ideas, 
thoughts, and feelings of 
lovers — can be to some 
extent explained by menial 
t.auses,and that love is not 
so mysteriously distinct 
from other forms of con- 
sciousness as it might 



at first sight ap 

One of the most 
satisfactory of the 
earlier theories was 
that of the German 
philosopher Scho- 
penhauer, who ex- 
plained love as "the 
genius of the race 
manifesting itself in 
the feelings of two 
people for the pur- 
pose of its own per- 
petuation." This 
purpose is only half 
revealed to the people 
themselves. Need I re- 
mind the reader of Mr, 
Bernard Shaw's play, 
M Man and Superman/' in 
which, with variations, a 
dramatization of this 
theory is brilliantly and 
successfully achieved ? 
According to Schopen- 
hauer's view , the intensity 
of the attraction felt by 
the two individuals for 
one another should be a 
measure or index of the 
amount of benefit which 
would accrue to the race 
from their getting mar- 
ried. In other words, the 
offspring of a love-match 
are likely to be finer chil- 
dren than those of a mar- 
riage without affection. 

Now, what account can 
the psychologist, the 
scientist who investigates 




A Play Lascd on Sdiopcnhauer'f theory af lwe, 



the process of falling in love, and of the state 
of mind of a person who is said to be "in 

In the first place we must notice that love 
is not a simple form of consciousness. It is 
not an elementary emotion, like fear or anger. 
It is extremely complex, and to this com- 
plexity it mainly owes its strength. But it is 
not a complex emotion, since it is not an 
emotion at all. When a man is in love, his 
feelings in relation to his idol vary from day 
to day, and even from hour to hour, accord- 
ing to changing circumstances. He feels joy 
and tender emotion in her presence, sorrow in 
her absence, anxiety when adversity threatens 
her, anger towards those who do or attempt 
any harm to her, gratitude (at least in certain 
cases) towards those who befriend her — and 
many other emotions in other circumstances. 
In complex circumstances he may experience 
complex emotions. His love consists, as we 
say, Ot a complex system of emotional 
dispositions centred about the idea of the 
loved one. To illustrate what is meant by 
an emotional disposition, let us take the 
simple case of anger. When one steps upon 
a man's toe, he becomes (as a rule) angry. 
But he was capable of anger before this event 
occurred, and will remain so after it has 
become a thing of the past. This quality 
of being capable of anger under appropriate 
circumstances is what we mean by an emo- 
tional disposition of anger. 

Returning to the case of love, we find that, 
in addition to the emotional dispositions just 
enumerated, that corresponding to the sexual 
instinct is an invariable ingredient, although 
appearing in different degrees of intensity in 
different individuals ; and if one bears this in 
mind it will, perhaps, make our account more 

Terms that may be technically used to 
express such emotional systems as the above- 
mentioned are passion or sentiment. Love 
is a passion or sentiment. There are, of 
course, other forms of love besides sexual 
love, such as ambition or love of power, 
avarice or love of money, etc. These, too, 
are passions. The essential element in any 
passion is the central idea about which the 
emotional dispositions come into being. Now, 
this central idea, in its effects, shows a very 
close resemblance to the " fixed ideas " which 
characterize so many mental diseases. It is, 
in fact, a kind of " fixed idea," and one of 
remarkable power, a power which comes from 
the emotional dispositions aroused in connec- 
tion with the idea of the loved one. All the 
energy of our mental life k derived from the 

Digitized by Vj OO^ J C 

emotional dispositions, which show them- 
selves in consciousness as the various forms 
of emotion. Milo of Crotona, when a boy, 
fleeing terror-stricken from a bear, leapt a 
wall which he did not succeed in again clear- 
ing until he reached manhood. Even thought 
is sustained throughout by that moderate 
degree of emotion known as " interest," and 
most creative thought is accompanied by 
extremely intense emotion. Balzac writing 
his novels in the silence of the night under the 
influence of strong coffee and strong emotion 
is an instance of this. Now, in the case of a 
'passion — and let us limit our attention once 
more to the passion of sexual love — the con- 
vergence of all these emotional dispositions 
upon one object brings about a parallel 
intellectual organization of ideas around the 
central idea or object. Out of all the various 
possible ideas, only those are selected and 
retained in memory which support the lover's 
high opinion of the excellences of his beloved. 
Her faults and deficiencies are not merely 
overlooked — they literally are not, for him. 
For this reason the ancients represented Love 
with bandaged eyes. 

A companion passion to love is that of 
hate. The relation between them is a very 
close one. In fact, the emotional dispositions 
which go to make up these two passions are 
almost identical. The difference lies mainly 
in the conditions under which they are excited. 
To illustrate my meaning : In love, injury 
done to the object arouses anger, kindness 
arouses gratitude ; in hate, injury to the 
object arouses gratitude, kindness arouses 
anger. There is a fascination in hate just as 
there is a fascination in love ; in both cases 
the attention is intently fixed upon the object. 
Hate is a source of inspiration just as love is, 
and has been responsible for many works of 
creative genius. To mention only one case, 
hatred of tyranny and conventionality was 
the mainspring of Shelley's poetic produc- 

This fact, together with the well-known 
general tendency of emotional states to 
change into their opposites as a result of 
fatigue or over-tension, will be found to ex- 
plain in outline most of those mysterious 
cases where love turns into hate, or vice versa. 
The latter case is the more rare, but not 
entirely unknown. There may be a con- 
tinued oscillation from one passion to the 
other. A noted instance of such a union of 
love and hate is to be found in the love-story 
of Alfred de Musset and " George Sand." Both 
of these interesting people have described 
their experiences. Says De Musset: " When 




these frightful scenes were over, a strange love, 
an exaltation carried to excess, made me treat 
my mistress as a divinity. A quarter of an 
hour after I had insulted her 1 was at her 
knees ; as soon as I ceased to accuse her I 
asked her pardon." And "George Sand*' 
writes of him ; "It was an invariable rule, 
unheard of, but absolute in this strange 
organization, that) sleep changing all his 

outraged sense of ownership would seem to 
be a sufficient explanation. 

The biological explanation of jealousy is 
obvious ; its psychological inadequacy is also 
obvious* We cannot explain it or explain it 
away, Let us endeavour to make away with 
it ! No vermiform appendix is half so useless. 

If my readers will kindly bear with me 
still a little longer in the more strictly 



A celebrated union of "Love and Hate/ 

resolutions, he would go to rest with his heart 
full of tenderness, and awaken in the morning 
eager for battle and murder ; but if he had 
left in the evening cursings he returned next 
morning to bless." 

Another paradoxical combination is that 
of love and contempt. Yet it is common — 
alas ! all too common, And it is tolerably 
easy to explain in terms of the evolution 
theory. The love corresponds to the con- 
servation of the race, the contempt to that 
of the individual who feels that he or she has, 
from an egoistic point of view, made a bad 
match* An example from fiction is Thomas 
Hardy's " Jude the Obscure; 5 ' 

Finally there is the problem of jealousy. 
Some psychologists explain it in terms of love, 
but this is not entirely convincing. The two 
states of mind are closely related , and, indeed, 
almost invariably found together. Many a 
woman instinctively refuses to believe that 
her suitor can be in earnest unless he displays 
jealousy on appropriate occasions. But what 
says the high-souled Othello ? 

Away at once with love or jealousy. 

He will not allow " the green-eyed mon- 
s'.er 3 ' to pollute his passion. In many cases 

Diqiliij*:/: ;:. ; : J 

scientific part of my description, I will now 
endeavour to indicate the principal stages in 
the process of * l falling in love/' as recognized 
by psychologists who interest themselves in 
the subject. 

After the three preliminary stages of 
admiration, the attraction of pleasure (arousal 
of physical and psychical desires of whatever 
kinds), and hope, there occurs a " crystalliza- 
tion " of manifold new perfections discovered 
by the lover in his mistress, which endows 
her with all the characteristics of the ideal, 
as far as may be. It is the emotional 
nature of the lover which discovers these 
perfections ; his desire acts as a centre of 
attraction which selects only the good and 
remains blind to all defects. The next stage 
is that of doubt — li for there is always a 
little doubt to set at rest J] — when reason 
raises its head and threatens to intervene. 
If this painful state of uncertainty is safely 
passed, a second '* crystallization " occurs, 
similar to the first in nature, but of much 
greater potency. The lover submits to his 
fate, and the whole tide of his life sets towards 
this one goal. The passion is completely 

Original from 




These stages may not be, in fact seldom are, 
apparent to the person concerned. He may 
not become aware of what is wrong with him 
until the passion has reached its full develop- 
ment. The experienced onlooker is generally 
not so blind. 

But someone will object, What of love at 
first sight ? In this phenomenon, likened by 
the French to a coup de foudre — a lightning 
stroke — the process of " crystallization " seems 
to be unnecessary, and the emotional interest 
of the individual in his new acquaintance is 
sufficiently intense to fix her image once for 
all m his mind, and direct his whole emotional 
nature towards her. There is, however, some 
uncertainty about such cases. 

I cannot help thinking that what is known 
in psychology as the subconscious plays an 
important, if not an essential, part in this 
matter of love. The subconscious self is 
that part of one's mental life which is not 
apparent in direct consciousness, but exists 
nevertheless, forming a sort of undercurrent 
of life and determining one's conduct un- 
known to oneself. How many times does 
one find oneself wondering, " Why did I do 
that ? " after some apparently irrational and 
unexplained action ! It is the subconscious 
that is the determining factor. There is 
evidence to show that telepathic influence — 
the influence of mind on mind at a distance 
— acts more readily upon this part of us than 
upon our waking consciousness. When love 
springs up between two persons we may 
assume that, by virtue of some original affinity 
between their subconscious selves, telepathic 
influences pass backwards and forwards, and 
bring their emotional natures in closer and 
closer harmony, each centred around the idea 
of the other. The emotions are intensified by 
mutual induction, after the manner of an 
electrical condenser. It would, at any rate, 
seem that, in some cases, influences affecting 
the subconscious selves are favourable to 
the birth and growth of the tender passion. 
Experiments in " table-tilting/' for example, 
may be more successful in this direction than 
the efforts of many match-making mammas ! 

Whatever may be the theory adopted to 
explain how it comes about that the ideas 
and emotions of two people become centred 
each about the idea of the other, we are still 
left with the striking resemblances which love 
presents to certain forms of mental disease. 
Besides the " fixed idea," there is the period 
of " incubation," during which the individual 
does not know what is the matter with him, 
but feels restless, depressed, and " out of 
sorts." There is feebleness of will-power, 

Digitized by Ot 

which may, in a few cases, even persist after 
the love has become manifest. Again, there 
is often a complete change of temperament 
and character, not always for the better. 
Romeo allows Tybalt to wound Mercutio 
mortally, and laments r— 

O sweet Juliet, 
Thy beauty hath made me effeminate 
And in my temper soften'd valour's steel ! 

The reaction sets in, he slays Tybalt, and the 
tragedy becomes inevitable. 

Love, when genuine, is too violent to be 
quite normal. It runs entirely counter to 
the evolution theory. It brings death more 
often than life. 

These violent delights have violent ends, 
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, 
Which as they kiss consume. 

Once more : some natures seem to be more 
susceptible to the love-fever than others, and 
would appear to be possessed of a special 
mental " diatheses " or disposition, resembling 
the physical diathesis — the tendency to cancer, 
scrofula, etc. — so well known to the physician. 
And the greater proneness to the affliction 
when in ill-health, mental or physical, brings 
it also into line with physical disease. There 
are, however, exceptions. Again, a love- 
affair of a certain type makes the individual, 
in many cases, partly or entirely immune to 
one of a similar nature for the future. Whether 
it is possible to be in love with more than one 
person at the same time is a difficult question, 
but we are, perhaps, a little too ready to 
answer it in the negative. 

No one will deny that extreme cases abound 
which are obviously diseased, but these shade 
off to the so-called normal cases by imper- 
ceptible degrees, and the dividing line is not 
easy to draw. How are we to regard the 
numerous love-tragedies of history ? What 
are we to say of the love murders and suicides 
which we read about daily in our newspapers ? 
Can we honestly convince ourselves — those of 
us who are not entirely inexperienced in the 
matter — that these cases belong to a class 
by themselves, and have no closer a relation 
to ordinary love than — say — a cancerous 
liver has to a normal one ? Perhaps if a 
larger proportion of people were insusceptible 
to the passion — that some such people exist 
cannot be doubted — we should be more ready 
to class it among our diseases. 

If disease it is, we must look for its cause 
in the subconscious, as explained above, and 
therefore the ordinary healing method of 
" suggestion," in which the patient's interest 
is turned in some other direction, is in most 
cases useless unless helped out by some means 




1, — 



For t-eaEtna thr mental cumin ion of lovers and other emotional patienti. 
Each word apfwars through ihe aperture uf the screen A, aixJ the subject or "patient " &pe;ilc s 
associated word into the "voice-key" B t which is in electrical connection^ through the relay F, 

with the chronoscopy or clock, K, in the adjoining room (see Fi(j. IkWIl 

of a second. From 
the normal or 
abnormal nature 
of the associations, 
and the normal or 
abnormal length 
of the association- 
times, the psycho- 
logist can draw 
inferences as to 
the state of the 
patient's conscious 
and subconscious 
life. In hysterical 
gases one gets re- 
in ark ably long 
association - times 
with certain 
words ; instead of 
the normal one to 
two seconds, they 
may be as long as 
seven or eight, and 

of getting down to the subconscious 
life of the individual. Such means 
are afforded us by the method of 
*' psycho - analysis " invented by 
Professor Freud of Vienna, and 
employed by him and his disciples, 
especially by Professor Yung of 
Zurich, with remarkable success 
upon certain forms of mental dis- 
ease — e.g. } hysteria, The principle 
of the method is similar to that 
of cross-examination as employed 
in a court of law, except that single 
words instead of questions are used 
as the bait* A series of words from 
thirty to a hundred, of which every 
third word bears upon the suspected 
trouble (the others are indifferent 
or neutral words), are read out 
singly to the patient, and he is 
required to reply in each case as 
quickly as possible with the first 
word that comes into his mind. 
His " association - times/' or the 
times taken by him to reply, 
are measured to one-tenth of a 
second by means of a stop-watch , 
and the replies or " associations " 
are also noted. In the accompany- 
ing photographs a much more 
elaborate apparatus is shown, by 
means of which the association- 
times cap be measured very accu- 
ratelyj correct to one-thousandth 

— Digitized by Go 


a»— Cloture of the electric key C exposes a word through itu* aperture »f the 
Hireeii A of Fttf. i, by memh nf the electrically- worked revi living spindle D. 
It also starts the hantK of the chruno-.rtjpr K mnving. When the *uhjccl 
rts pond* into the voice -try. ihc e!ectric circuit is broken and the Tund* mod. 
The pg^iiiun ol the band* give* the. ov*ocbtt ion dime in thousandths ol a second. 

Original from 



sometimes no response at all can be given by 
the patient* These words refer to an emo- 
tional shock or emotional tendency which is 
the cause of the disease, but which has 
passed from the conscious to the sub- 
conscious life of the patient, and, therefore, 
produces its disastrous effects unknown to 
the patient himself. The shock has acted as 
a foreign body or malignant growth in the 
subconscious, and the method of psycho- 
analysis brings it to the patient's memory — 
i.e. t drags it up into full consciousness, and 
so enables the reason and the will to be 
-directed upon it and render it innocuous. 

The physician learns of the cause of the 
disease simultaneously with the patient, and 
is then able to help the latter by thoroughly 
" talking the thing out " with him, 

The case of love is very similar to 
this. Love is a disturbance in 
which the subconscious is largely 
involved, hence its seeming mysteri- 
ousness and irrationality. Not all 
love-affairs need to be cured, but in 
cases where this is desirable the 
method of psycho-analysis enables 
the reason and will of the lover to 
be directed upon the irrational 
emotional tendencies that have 
gained a footing in his subconscious- 
ness, so that they are seen in their 
true light and combated accordingly. 
Let us imagine the instance of a 
pair of lovers where, owing to some 
internal reasons, jealousy, etc., love 
is not flowing smoothly. If these 
two people be tested separately and 
independently with the same list of 
words, much information can he 
obtained as to the nature of their 
subconscious selves, and also of the 
more hidden parts of their explicit 
consciousness, They will learn much 
for themselves in the course of the 
experiment, even before the psycho- 
logist passes his judgment. Cases of 
** hopeless love" could be treated in a similar 
way, so that indirectly the method might 
even prove to be a new and efficacious way of 
curing some cases of consumption, or at least 
directing the physician's attention to the 
mental factor which is not unfrequently 
present in these instances. The actual cura- 
tive treatment, so far as it is mental, would 
in every case take the form of " suggestion " 

and a talking of the matter out with the 
patient; the psychologist would prescribe 
measures for directing the flow of the patient's 
ideas and emotional tendencies into other 

The reader may quickly convince himself 
of the efficacy of the method in revealing what 
is present in the subconscious, by acting as 
the subject or patient in the experiments. 
He will find that the words called out to him 
do strike upon his subconsciousness and bring 
to light emotionaL ideas previously unknown 
even to himself. 

One last word to prevent misunderstand- 
ing. The term £t love " is used in two senses. 
With the exception of those rare sunlit 
characters which we all adore but so seldom 
meet, men and women react to the passion 
of love, founded upon the sexual instinct, in 


3* — It rotate* step- wist behind the screen A of Fig. j, and h driven 

by the mechanism D of Fig. 2. 

ways that show a remarkable resemblance to 
the symptoms of certain forms of mental 
disease. The passion is essentially egoistic, 
even when it leads, as it occasionally does, to 
self-sacrifice and self-destruction. The other 
form of love is what is generally known as 
affection. This is divine. We are often better 
without love in the former sense, but true affec- 
tion should be cherished and not suppressed. 

by Google 

Original from 

The series of stories now appearing are specially translated for English 

boys and girls from a volume of the best Russian Wonder Tales selected 

by command of the Czar for the use of his own children, 


Illustrated fey H. R. Millar. 

N a certain kingdom beyond 
the ocean there once lived 
an old peasant with his 
wife. They were honest and 
industrious, though very 
3j poor, and, moreover, had no 
children, which was a great 
grief to them. In scanty seasons the peasant 

Digitized by GoOgl 

eked out his living by hunting wolves 

and bears, whose skins he sold to buy 


One day he tracked a bear to its den, 

and having killed it, he found there, to 

his astonishment, a little boy three years 

old, naked and sturdy, whom the bear 

had stolen and had been rearing like a 

cub. The peasant took the little boy 

ho me ^ called in the priest, had him 

baptized Ivashko Medvedko, which is to 

say, "Little Ivan, Bear's Son/' and 

l>i ran to bring him up as his own. 

The lad grew not by years, but by 

hours, as fast as if someone were dragging 

him upstairs, until when he was fifteen he was 

of a man's height and stronger than anyone 

in the whole countryside. He did not realize 

his own strength, so that before long, as he 

played with the other lads of the village, 

accidents began to happen. 

This naturally produced much trouble, 

and finally his neighbours came to the old 

peasant and said : bl You are our neighbour 

and our countryman, and we have no quarrel 

with you. But as for your Bear's Son, he 

should he turned, out of. the village/* 
-j Original from 








The old man was sad and sorry, for he 
loved the lad and knew that he had a good 
heart and meant no mischief. Little Bear's 
Son noticed his downcast looks and asked : 
" Why are you so sad, grandfather ? " 

" Ah, little grandson/' said the old man, 
sighing heavily, " you have been my only 
comfort. Now our neighbours have deter- 
mined to expel you from the village, and what 
will you do, and how will you live ? " 

" Well, grandfather," answered he, " this 
is truly a great misfortune, but it cannot be 
helped. Go, I pray, and buy me an iron club 
of a thousand pounds weight. Let me remain 
here but three weeks longer, to exercise and 
develop my body, and then I shall leave you 
to make mine own way in the world." 

The old man went and bought the heavy 
iron club, loaded it in a cart, and brought it 
home, and with it Little Bear's Son began 
each day to exercise. 

Now near by was a green meadow on which 
stood three fir trees ; the first was fifteen 
fathoms around, the second twenty, and the 
third twenty-five. When the first week was 
ended he went to the meadow, seized the first 
fir tree, and putting forth all his strength 
pulled it over. He went home and exercised 
with his iron club a second week, and at the 
end of that time he went to the meadow, 
seized the second fir tree, bent it down to the 
ground and broke it into two pieces. He 
went home and exercised with his iron club 
yet a third week, and going to the meadow 
he seized the third fir tree and with a single 
jerk tore it up by the roots. " Now," said 
Little Bear's Son. " I am so strong that I fear 
not even a witch," and bidding farewell, with 
tears, to the old man and the old woman, he 
thrust his iron club into his girdle and went 
straight before him. 

He came at length to a river three miles 
wide. On its bank knelt a giant, as tall as a 
birch sapling, and as thick as a hayrick, with 
his mouth stretched wide in the water, catch- 
ing fish with his moustache. When he caught 
one, he kindled a fire on his tongue, roasted 
the fish, and swallowed it. 

" Health to you, giant," said Little Bear's 
Son. " Who are you ? " 

" Health to you," answered the other. 
" My name is Usynia — the moustache-man. 
Where are you going ? " 

*' Straight before me," replied Little Bear's 
Son. lt Will you come with me ? It is 
merrier with companionship. You are of a 
goodly size and should be a man of strength." 

" As for that," said the giant, " my strength 
is nothing. For a really strong man, thev 

Digitized by LiOOgJC 

say you must go to him who is named Ivashko 

" That is my name," said Little Bear's Son. 

" Then will I go with you right willingly," 
said the other. 

They travelled for a day, when they came 
to a valley in which a giant four yards high 
was at work. He was carrying earth, a whole 
hill at a time, and mending the roads with it. 

" Health to you," said Little Bear's Son. 
" What are you called ? " 

"Health to you," replied the giant. " My 
name is Gorynia — the hill-man. Whither 
doth God lead you ? " 

" Straight before us," said Little Bear's 
Son. " You are a strong man, I see. But 
why do you toil so hard ? " 

" Because I am dull," answered the other. 
" But as for strength, I have little enough 
compared with a certain youth named Ivashko 

" I am he," said Little Bear's Son. 

" Then take me with you," said the giant, 
" and I will be your younger brother." 

They travelled for two days, when they 
passed through a forest of oak trees, and in it 
they perceived a third giant as tall as a barn, 
at work making all the oaks of the same 

" Health to you," said Little Bear's Son. 
" You are indeed a mighty man. What is 
your name ? " 

" Health to you," responded the giant. 
" My name is Dubynia — the oak-man. But 
my strength is as naught compared with that 
of a certain Ivashko Medvedko that I have 
heard tell of." 

" I am that one," said Little Bear's Son. 
" Will you go with us and be our comrade ? " 

" That I will," answered the giant. 
" Where does your path lead ? " 

" Straight before us," said Little Bear's 
Son, and the third giant went with them. 

They travelled, all four together, for three 
days, when they came to a wilderness full 
of all kinds of game, and Little Bear's Son 
said : " Let us build a house here and dwell 
in ease and comfort." * 

The three giants agreed. All immediately 
set to work clearing the stubble and prepar- 
ing the timbers, and before nightfall the 
dwelling was completed. It was built of the 
hugest trees, and was big enough to shelter 
comfortably forty ordinary men. When it 
was finished they made a hunt and killed, 
and snared beasts and fowl to fill their larder. 

The next morning Little Bear's Son said : 
" Each day three of us must hunt so that we 
do not lack food, while the fourth stays at home 




to guard our 
house and to 
cook for the rest. 
Let us cast lots, 
therefore , to see 
who shall stavat 
home to-day," 

They cast lots, 
and it fell to 
Usynia toremain, 
and the other 
three went away 
to hunt. 

When they had 
departed Usynia 
took flesh and 
fowl and pre- 
pared a fit meal 
for his comrades 
when they should 
return, and boiled 
and baked and 
roasted whatever 
pleased his souL 
When all was 
ready he washed 
his head and, 
sitting down 
under the win- 
dow, began to 
comb his curly 
locks with a 

Suddenly it 
thundered, the 
wind began to 
moan, the earth 
began to shake, 
and the wild, 
thick, silent 
forest bent down 
to the ground. 
Usynia grew faint 
and giddy and 
seemed to turn 
green. As he 
looked out of 
the window he 

saw the earth begin to rise, and from under 
it lifted a huge stone, and from beneath the 
stone came a Baba-Yaga, a witch, riding in 
a great iron mortar, driving with the pestle, 
and sweeping away her trail behind her with 
a broom* 

Usynia was badly frightened, but he 
Opened the door, and when the old witch 
came in wished her good health and gave her 
a bench to sit on. 



, ,, 

by Google 

M Can you not 
see, you dolt/' 
snarled the Baba- 
Yaga, " that I 
am hungry? Give 
me something to 
eat ! " 

Usynia took a 
roast duck from 
the oven and 
some bread and 
salt, and set them 
before her. She 
ate it all greedily 
and demanded 
more. He 
brought another 
piece of meat, 
but it was so 
small that she 
flew into a rage* 
this how you serve 
me?" she cried, and, 
seizing him with her bony 
urniSj she threw him 
under the table. Then she 
cut a strip of skin from 
his backj snatched every- 
thing out of the oven and 
ate it j bones and all, and 
drove away in her mortar. 

When the injured giant came 
to his senses he tied his hand- 
kerchief about his head and 
.sat groaning till his comrades 

Seeing him, they asked : " Are 
you in pain that you have 
bound up your head ? And w T here is our 
supper ? 7i 

" Ah, brothers,' 1 he replied, " I have 
been able neither to boil nor to roast for 
you. The oven is new and the smoke 
poured out into the room till it gave 
me a headache. 1 ' 

So Little Bear's Son and his two com- 
rades prepared their meals themselves. 

The next day Gorynia remained at 
home. He roasted and fried to his 
heart's content, and when all was done he 
washed his head and began to comb his hair ? 
when all at once it lightened, hail began to 
fall, and the trees of the dense, sleepy forest 
bent over to the ground. He grew faint 
and giddy and everything seemed to turn 
green, Then he saw the earth stir, the stone 
lift, and from beneath it the Baba-Yaga 
came riding in her mortar- 
Gory nia was too frightened to hide hirn- 

Original from 




self, and the old witch came in without 
knocking. ** Health to you, grandmother/' 
said the giant, and bade her sit down. 

M Do you not see that I am hungry and 
thirsty ? " she snapped, u Fetch me food ! " 

He set a piece of venison and a cup of 
mare's milk before her. She ate and drank 
and asked for more, and he brought her 
another piece of meat. This, however, being 
smaller than the first, did not please her 
fancy, (£ Is it thus you serve me ? " she 
shrieked, and, gripping him by the hair with 
her skinny hands, she belaboured him with 
her pestle till his senses left him. Then she cut 
a strip of flesh from his back, threw him under 
the bench, ate all that he had cookedj and 
drove awa\\ 

When the others returned from their 
hunting they found Gory ma sitting with 
his head bandaged and groaning, louder than 
had Usynia the day before. <l Alas, 
brothers ! " he said, when they questioned 
him, " The wood was damp and would 
not burn, and from trying to bake and roast 
for you } my head aches 
as if it would burst ! " 

So the three cooked 
their own supper and 
went to bed. 

The next day Dubynia 
was left at home, while 
the others hunted, and 
to him the same thing 
happened also. The 
Baba - Yaga appeared, 
beat him black and blue 
with her pestle, cut a 
strip of flesh from his 

not close, and the gas from the burning wood 
made me giddy and caused my poor head to 
ache as if it must split in two ! " 

On the fourth day it came the turn of 
Little Wear's Son to stay. He put the house 
to rights, boiled, baked, and roasted, and, 
when all was prepared, washed his head, sat 
down under the window, and began to comb 
his hair. Suddenly rain began to fall, the 
wind howled in the forest, and everything 
turned green before his eyes ; then the 
earth parted, the great stone tilted, and 
out from the hole came the Baba-Yaga, 
riding in her mortar. 

Little Bear's Son was not frightened, how- 
ever, nor was he made giddy. He fetched 
his iron club of a thousand pounds weighty 
stood it ready in a corner, and opened the 
door. " Health to you, grandmother," he 

She hobbled in and sat down, grinding all 
her teeth and smiling. " Fool ! ' y she said. 
Ed Why do you not offer me something to eat 
and drink ? " 


back, threw him into a corner, ate the supper, 
and drove away, He also sat groaning till the 
others returned, when he said : " Brothers, I 
have been able neither to boil nor to bake 
for you, for the dampers of the stove would 

Digitized by G( 

" The food that I have cooked," he replied 
" is for my comrades, not for you ! " 

The old witch snatched up her pestle and 
sprang upon him, thinking to treat him as 
she had the others * but he seized her by her 




grey locks, grasped his iron club, and began 
to beat her till even her witch's body suffered 
tortures and she howled for mercy. Then he 
threw her into a cupboard and locked the door. 

Presently the three giants returned, expect- 
ing, each one of them, to find Little Bear's 
Son well beaten and their supper gone. But 
he welcomed them, bade them sit down, and 
brought from the oven foods of all sorts, 
deliciously cooked and in plenty. 

When the supper was ended, Little Bear's 
Son heated the bath for his comrades, and 
all went to bathe. Now, because the witch 
had cut the strips of flesh from their backs, 
each of the three giants tried to stand always 
with his face toward Little Bear's Son, lest 
he should see the scar. But at length he 
asked : " Brothers, why do you stand thus 
facing me, like men who fear to show their 
shoulders ? " Then they turned themselves 
about, and he asked : " Why are these scars 
upon your backs ? " 

Then Usynia said : " The day I stayed at 
home the smoke of the fire blinded my eyes, 
so that I touched the stove and the hot iron 
scarred me." Gorynia said : " When I 
remained, the wood :vas damp, and, in filling 
the stove with dry, a faggot dropped from 
my shoulder and tore my flesh." And 
Dubynia said : " When I was left behind, 
the gas from the oven made me giddy, so 
that I slipped and fell upon your iron club." 

Then Little Bear's Son laughed, and, 
opening the cupboard door, dragged from 
thence the Baba-Yaga. "Here, brothers," 
he said, " are the smoke, the dampness, and 
the gas." 

Now, the old witch was cunning, and she 
pretended to be still senseless from her beat- 
ing. She opened one eye a little, however, 
and, seeing her chance, suddenly leaped into 
her mortar, whirled through the doorway, 
and in another moment had disappeared. 

The three giants, angered to find their 
secret discovered, were still more furious to 
see the Baba-Yaga outwit them. They ran 
to the stone and put forth all their strength 
to turn it, but were unable. Then Little 
Bear's Son went to the stone, lifted it, and 
hurled it a mile away. Beneath it was a great 
dark hole, like the burrow of an enormous fox. 

" Brothers," said Little Bear's Son, " the 
witch is in this abyss. She is now our mortal 
enemy, and if we do not kill her she will drive 
us, one by one, out of the world. Which of us 
shall follow her ? " 

The three giants, however, had tasted the 
Baba-Yaga's power, and had no relish for 
attacking her. " Well," said Little Bear's 

Son, " it seems that I must be the one 
to go." He bade them, then, cut into strips 
the hides of the beasts they had trapped and 
killed, and to twist the strips into a long rope. 
He planted a great post in the ground, tied 
one end of the rope to this and threw the other 
end into the dark hole. " Now, brothers," 
he said, " remain here and watch, one of you 
at a time. If you see the rope quiver and 
shake, lay hold of it and hoist me out." 

The rope held and was sufficiently long, 
and at length he reached the bottom. There 
he found a trodden path which led him through 
a long underground passage, till finally he 
emerged into another world. 

He wandered a day, and two, and three, 
and on the fourth day he came, in a forest, 
to a wretched little hut standing on chicken 
legs and turning round and round without 
ceasing. About it was a garden, and in the 
garden was a beautiful damsel plucking 

He greeted her, and she said : " Health to 
you, good youth, but what do you here ? 
This is the house of a Baba-Yaga, who, if you 
remain, will surely devour you ! " 

*" It is she I seek," he answered. 

" You are a brave man," the damsel said. 
" But the witch is a hundred times more 
powerful here, where she is surrounded by 
her enchantments, than in the upper world. 
She is now asleep, but presently she will wake 
and ride away. Hide in the forest till 
she is gone, and I will show you a way by 
which, perchance, you may overcome her. 
Only promise truly that if you do succeed, 
you will take me back with you to the world 
whence she carried me away." 

Little Bear's Son gave the maiden this 
promise, and concealed himself in the forest, 
and after a while he felt the ground rumble 
and saw the trees shiver and bow down, and 
out of the hut came the Baba-Yaga, riding 
away in her great iron mortar, driving with 
the pestle and sweeping out her trail behind 
her with her kitchen broom. When she was 
out of sight he hastened to the hut, and the 
damsel, taking him into the cellar, showed 
him two great casks full of water. 

" Drink," she bade him, " from the right 
cask, as much as you can hold." 

He stooped down and took a long drink, 
when she asked : " How strong are you 
now ? " 

" I am so strong," he replied, " that if I 
chose, with one hand I could lift and turn 
about this whole hut ! " 

" Listen well," she said, " to what I tell 
you. The cask from which you have drunk 

by \j, 



■_i 1 1 1 ti i M .' 1 1 1 





contains Strong Water. It is this which 
gives the Baba-Yaga her strength. The cask 
on the left holds Weak Water, and whoever 
drinks from it is quickly made powerless. As 
soon as the witch appears, seize tightly her 
pestle before she lays it down, and loose not 
your grip as you love your life. She will try 
to shake you' off , but you are now so strong 
that she will not be able to do so. Failing 
in this, she will hasten here to drink of the 
Strong Water. Change, therefore, now, the 
two casks, and put each in the place of the 
other, so that she will be deceived and will 
drink of the Weak Water i and then you may 
kill her. When you draw your sword, how- 
ever, strike but a single stroke. Her mortar, 
her pestle, and her broom, all her faithful 
servants, will cry out to you to strike again, 
but if you strike a second stroke, she will 
instantly come to life again, 5 * 

Little Bear's Son immediately changed 
the places of the tw r o casks. And soon, as 
he conversed with the lovely maiden in 
the garden, the trees began to shiver and the 
timbers of the hut to creak, and the Baba- 
Yaga came riding home. Little Bear's Son 
hid himself behind a hedge, and the old 
witch leaped down from her mortar. 

Digitized by Google 


11 Pooh 3 pooh I " she cried j smelling around 
her, " I smell a Russian smell ! Who has 
visited here ? " 

" No one* grandmother," said the damseL 
" How could one from the upper world find 
his way here ? " 

li Well" said the Baba-Yaga, " I fear no 
one here save a Russian named Ivashko 
Medvedko, and he is far away." 

" You lie, old witch I" cried Little Bear's 

Son, and with the words sprang out and seized 

hold of her iron pestle. The Baba-Yaga 

whistled and spat and howled with rage, 

but, try as she might, she could not shake 

him off. She tore away in a whirlwind 

over the tree-tops of the forest, striving to 

dash him to pieces. But Little Bear's Sol 1 

held on with all the strength he had pained 

from drinking the Strong Water, and she 

could not break his hold. She dragged him 

backwards and forwards over tha whole 




under-world in vain, till at length even she 
grew tired- Then back she flew to the hut 
and began to drink from the cask on the 
right hand. 

Hardly, however, had the Baba-Yaga 
rushed from the cellar to attack Little Bear's 
Son again than she became all at once as 
weak as a blade of grass, and, drawing his 
sword, he cut off her wicked old head. 

Instantly the iron mortar a. id pestle and 
the kitchen broom cried out to him : £( Strike 
again I Strike again ! " But, remembering 
what the darmel had said, he answered : 
' f A brave man's sword strikes not twice/' 
and sheathed it. 

Little Bear's Son made a great fire in the 

Bear's Son saw a great bird's nest with 
fledglings in it, and, pitying the young ones, 
which were being drenched, he hung his 
cloak above the nest to protect them- Pre- 
sently the rain ceased, and they went on till 
they reached the underground passage and 
followed it to the place where the hide-rope 
hung. Little Bear's Son tied the damsel to 
its end and shook it, and the three giants 
began to pull up the rope. 

When they saw the beauty of the maiden, 
however, the three giants were envious of 
their comrade, and each wished her for his 
wife. So they agreed together, and when 
they had hoisted Little Bear's Son, in his 
turn, almost to the top, they cut the rope 


forest and burned the witch's body to ashes. 
Ill en, taking the lovely maiden with him, 
he set out on his return to the upper world. 

For two days they journeyed, and on the 
second day rain began to fall, so that they 
took refuge under a tree. Near by Little 

by L^OOgle 

and let him fall, 
and straightway 
began to quarrel 
over which of them 
should marry her. 
Little Bear's 
Son was terribly 
hurt by his fall, 
but so strong had 
he become that 
he was not killed. 
He lay on his back 
one day, he lay 
on his side two 
davs and three, 
and then he 
managed to walk, 
through the long 
passage, into the under-world again. While 
he wandered there, wondering what he should 
do, there came flying one of the huge birds 
whose young he had seen, and, alighting near 
him, it spoke to him with a human voice. 
tL You had pity on my fledglings, Ivashko 
Original from 




Medvedko," it said, 
u and in return for 
this I will do you a 
service. Ask of me 
what you will t " 

"If you are 
able " replied Little 
Bear's Son, " take 
me out into the 
world. 19 

" It is a hard 
sen ice/' said the 
bird, " but there is 
a way I know, and 
I will carry you. 
The journey, how- 
ever, will take three 
months. Go now 
into the forest and 
snare much game 
and twist a wicker 
basket and fill it. 

Mount my back with this, and whenever I 
turn my head as I fly, feed me/' 

Little Bear's Son did as he was bidden. 
He made a great basket, filled it with game, 
and mounted with it to the back of the huge 
bird, which at once rose into the air and flew 
away like a hurricane. It flew day after 
day, without stopping. As often as it turned 
its head he fed it with some of the game from 
the basket, and when it had flown for three 
months, and the basket was almost empty, 
it carried him out into the world, set him 
down in a grassy meadow, bade him farewell, 
and flew away. 

Little Bear's Son came at last to his own 
kingdom, and to the forest wherein stood the 
house that he and the three giants had built. 
A little way within the forest he saw a green, 
lawn, and on it a lovely girl was tending cows. 
He drew near and found to his surprise that 
she was none other than the damsel be had 
rescued from the hut of the Baba-Vaga. 

She greeted him with joy, and told him all 
that had befallen her : how the giants had 
quarrelled over her, and how they had fought 
each day for an hour — but, as no one 
of them was stronger than the others they 
had not been able to decide, and had made 
her tend their rattle till one should prevail 
Then he kissed her on the mouth, and 
said he : M You shall wed no one of those 
faithless brothers of mine, but I shall wed 
you myself.*' 

Little Bear's Son sent her on before him, 
and coming to the hut, where the three giants 


sat at the window drinking, pulled his cap 
over his fare and in a humble tone asked for a 
drink of milk. 

11 Be off with yoii ! " grunted Usynia, 
without turning his head. 

11 We want no beggars here ! " snarled 
Gory ma, 

11 Milk, forsooth ! " shouted Dubvnia. "You 
shall have a taste of my club instead ! "' 

Then Little Bear f s Son took off his cap 
and they recognized him. They turned pale 
with fright and, making for the door, ran 
away as if the Tartars were after them, and 
were never seen in that kingdom again. And 
Little Bear's Son married the lovely damsel, 
and they dwelt in that house all their lives 
in such peace and comfort that they wanted 
nothing they did not have, and had nothing 
they did not want. 

by Google 

Original from 




George Gray, whose marvellous breaks have created 
so much sensation in the world of billiards, has been 
in the habit, after his match play, of giving an ex- 
hibition of extraordinary trick strokes, which spectators 
have found to be as interesting and as wonderful as 
ts his game itself. Those who have not seen these 
trick strokes and those who, having seen them, wish to 
study them will find the tricks fully described and 
illustrated in the following article. 

N an ordinary billiard-table 
it requires considerable cue- 
power to make a ball 

strike all 
six cushions. 
Gray not 
only does this, 
but scores the 
cannon shown 
in our dia- 
gram. It will 
be noted that 
the stroke is 
com p 1 e te d 
after the cue- 
ball has struck 
the sixth 
cushion. This 
means that 
the ball must 
be hit with 
power and 


From a PtofepjvfiA bv " $wrt *t GsjtfrttL" 

accuracy ? and many who have quite a 
reputation as billiard sloggers will find this 
stroke beyond their very hardest smite. 

Our second 
diagram shows 
another bril- 
liant spectacu- 
lar effort by 
Gray, Here, 
again, all six 
cushions are 
utilized, but 
the cannon is 
slightly more 
orthodox be- 
cause of the 
direct contact 
with the first 
object- ball. 
This is another 
stroke which 
will test the 
prowess of the 
muscular expo- 
nent of the 
More difficult 




3. — Twice round the tabic tor a 


still is the cannon shown below (3). Gray 

sends the cue - ball speeding twice round 

the table to make the score, and it will be 

noted that no fewer than seven cushions 

are called into 
play before the 
stroke is 
This stroke is 
far beyond 
even the acci- 
dental efforts 
of the average 

A pretty and 
effective trick 
stroke is the 
next (4) to de- 
mand atten- 
tion. A cannon, 
gathering the 
balls together, 
is accom- 
plished, and 
the run of the 
object - ball is 
shown by a 
dotted line, 
while a con- 
tinuous line indicates the course taken by 

the cue -ball. An amateur who can put 

plenty of screw 

and side on a 

ball can amuse 

himself by 

having a shot 

at this stroke. 

He will doubt- 
less make the 

cannon fairly 

often with a 

little practice. 

His trouble 

will commence 

when he tries 

to leave the 

balls together 

as Gray does 

every time. 

the secret of 

George Gray's 



of the red ball 

in his big 

breaks is undoubtedly plain-ball striking such 

as we have never seen before, yet it must not 

be hastilv inferred that the young Australian 
vol .ai- a 

\\ 7^ 

/ \ 


/ 1 



f \ 



I — %■— 


4.- -A positional screw cannon. 

cannot make what are called the " tall " 
strokes. As a matter of fact, his collection 
of massi and allied strokes is one of the finest 
ever brought before the public by a cueist born 
in the British Empire, and compares favour- 
ably with the display of American and Conti- 
nental exponents of this branch of billiards. 

The accompanying diagrams depict a 
num ber of 
these strokes, 
all demanding 
complete con- 
trol of the cue 
when the butt 5. — A masse winning hazard. 

is uplifted. 
The two (5 and 
6) bear a strong 
family likeness 
to each other. 
In each case 
the object is to make the cue - ball curl 
round an intervening object, but in the first 
example the winning hazard is scored, while 
a loser off the white is the objective in the 
second. What can be done when this class 
of stroke is pushed to an extreme is shown 
in our seventh diagram, depicting Gray's 
famous cannon 

round the tri- * y 1 -a n 

angle used for 
setting up the 
pyramid balls. 
No. 8 is a 
piqui cannon 
direct back off 

the red when the balls are too close together 

for an ordi- 

A masse losing hazard. 

7. — A cannon round the triangle. 

8. — A pique cannon off the red. 

nary screw- 
back. It is not 
by any means 
easy, and only 
very skilled 
amateurs can 
hope to ex- 
ploit it with any degree of success. The 
ninth stroke is something far harder ; the 
c u e - b a 1 1 is 

made to 
swerve round 
the red, strike 
the white first, 
and complete 
the cannon— a 
grand exhi- 
bition stroke 
which Gray plays to perfection. Diagram 
10 shows a stroke which is really a teaser, 
whatever it mav look like at first sight. The 


9. — A difficult mass£ cannon off 
the white. 





10. — An exquisite masse losing 

object -ball is 
right on the 
middle pocket 
jaw, the cue- 
ball close be- 
hind^ and the 
only possible 
chance of the 
losing hazard 
is the exquisite 
tnassi shown in 
the illustra- 
tion. It is so 
judge exactly 

what to do with this stroke, even by those 

who have a fair control of the massi, as the 

requisite contact with the far side of the 

object must be 

judged with 

the utmost 


is certain. To 

show the curl 

of the cue-ball 

and its contact 

quite clearly 

the object-ball 

has been drawn 

a shade farther 

from the centre 

of the pocket 

than in the 

actual stroke. 
Coming to what may be called the broader 

class of exhibition stroke, the type which never 

^^ fails to raise a 
=*jfl smile, it must 
be admitted 
that George 
Gray holds his 
own here. The 
novel s i x- 
stroke shown 
in our eleventh 
diagram is 
clever, even if 
not quite in 
with the rules. 
Gray intends 
to make a six- 
shot by potting 
the red in the 
top pocket and 
screwing back 
into the middle 

1 1 . — A sensational six-stroke. 

1 3. — A cannon off the table. 

A " moving " cannon. 

by LiOOgle 

pocket. He 
sends the red 
down with a 
whiz and a 
bang, but be- 
fore the white 
has time to 
reach its desti- 
nation he 
catches it with 
the point of his 
cue and sends it 
into the same 
pocket as the 
red — a truly 
marvellous dis- 
play of speed 
and accuracy 
in cue delivery. 

To make a cannon when all three balls are 
on the move is a distinct novelty, manipulated 
by Gray in the following manner. The ball 
marked " i " is first played round the table in 
the direction of the continuous line, then " 2 " 
is given a gentle push down the table with 
the hand. When it has reached about the 
point marked with a cross in the diagram (12), 
" 3 " is dispatched after it with the cue, and, 
catching it while still on the move, goes round 
the table as shown by the dotted line, and 
makes the cannon with " 1 " somewhere in 
the vicinity of the right baulk pocket. 

Although Gray's repertoire of trick and 
fancy strokes is by no means exhausted, a 
couple of exhibition shots of the ever-popular 
" basket " type will suffice to conclude this 
article. In the first, No. 13, Gray knocks the 
red ball into the pool -basket and makes a 
cannon with the assistance of a second object- 
ball somewhere on the floor. In the last 
example (14) 
is directly in 
the way of a 
cannon ; but 
Gray plays a 
stroke which 
not only makes 
the ball clear 
the basket out 
of its path, thus 
enabling the 
cannon to be 
made, but also 
knocks the 
basket upright 
into its proper 

position on the , 4> _ A CUUM ^ ^ ^ 

bcdofthetab^g basket 





Another Chess Curiosity, 


I— I ERE is a position 
■ * which, when 
changed from one place 
to another on the chess- 
board, will produce 
results that will appear 
to be incredible. The 
transfers will cause the 
formation of nearly a 
score of different prob- 
lems, and those so 
formed will be found 
to be of a good order 
and particularly free from cooks, dual and triple mates 
and continuations, or' other blemishes. Further, each 
problem will be found to be an interesting study in itself. 

As all the problems in this series are three-movers, 
it will be unnecessary to state the conditions under 
each. The mottoes are clues to the key-moves, and 
so will assist the solver. 

First, place the position as follows : — 
No. i.— PINION. 



m i !■ ■ 

■J - 1 r 




y ' s ■■/, 

"p 8 ^ — F"! — V%\ — m 

k,i %:i %*i mi 

"-% <'■} *■•* '; H\ 




Ft h A 


'!'!/ ■■":">:: 

•I <jHf 

'i . KM 


\i*ji& y 


This position is a hitherto unpublished problem, 
as all the others which emanate from it are, so will 
be new to our solvers. For our next, move it one 
square to the right : — 


Another different problem which will be found 
difficult. It will not be made less so by moving it 
again one square to the right, giving : — 

The White pawn takes no part in the solutions. 
The mystery of its presence, which is a curiosity in 
itself, will, however, be explained later on. Now 
move the position up one square, and we get : — 

Quite a different problem altogether, as will be seen. 
The wonder is that such a method of constructing 
was not sooner adopted. It dispels the impression 
that there is nothing new in chess problems nowadays, 
saves the composer the trouble of forming themes or 
ideas to work on, and in a great measure discards the 
use of diagrams, which oftentimes uselessly occupy 
valuable space. 

The utility of the White pawn is now doubtful, and 

so it may be put aside ; at the same time, its presence 
does not interfere with the solutions. In any case, it 
is better to remove it, as it may only confuse the solver. 
Move this (No. 4) up one square, and we have : — 

One more move up brings a pawn on to a square it 
never before occupied when in use. However, it may 
be removed from the board or allowed to remain, 
at the option of the solver. In either case, it will in 
no way interfere with the continuance of our series 
of proSlems. Here then occurs what is more curious 
than all. By removing it we get : — 


By allowing the pawn to remain, and then moving 
the position one square to the left, bringing the White 
king to Q 6, and the other men to their relative places, 
we obtain a new problem in : — 


This in turn may be moved one square to the left 
for a solution. Having so moved it, we can utilize 
the dummy pawn by removing it from Ki to Q B 7. 
Now move the position down one square — the Black 
pawn again becoming a dummy — ana we get : — 

Remove the dummy pawn from the board, and move 
the position down one square diagonally to the left, 
and we have : — 


Move this one square to the right, and then place 
the discarded Black pawn on K B 2, and we again 
have a different problem in : — 

No. 10.-MYSTICAL. 

We will now restore the pawns to their proper places, 
move the position down one square, and arrive at our 
first position, No. i,a diagram of which we have given. 

A very slight alteration of either the White pawn 
or a Black pawn will allow of many other problems. 
For instance, having No. 1 before us, remove the White 
pawn from Q Kt 4 to Q B 4. This gives : — 

Position No. 1 moved one square to the left, and 
having the White pawn at K B 6 instead of Q Kt 4, 
produces :— 

No. 12.— EXCELSIOR. 

This, with the White pawn at K 7 instead of K B 6, 
is changed to : — 

No. 13.— STRATEGY. 

Other problems can be formed by turning the 
board. No. 3, for instance, when placed upside 
down. But we will not proceed farther at present, 
as otherwise we would weary the solver. 

Solutions will appear in due course. 

Solution to Last Month's Chess Curiosity. 

No. 1.— 1. Q-B i, P-B5; 
a.— 1. Q-K Kt i, P- Q 5; 
3.-1. Q-R8,P-K «;; 
4.-1. Q-R7, P-K6; 
5.— 1. Q— B2, ch, K-IJ8; 
if P-K 7 ; 
Q-KKt3,ch,K-R 3 ; 
B 7f ch, K-Bi; 




7.— r 
No. 8.— 1 
No. 9. — 1 

by Google 

Q -QKi6,ch,K~ 
0-R3, P-R5; 
K-Kt 7 , P-B4; 
No. 10. — 1. 0-Kt 3 , P-Kt 5 
No. xi.— 1. (3— Kt 3, ch, P-(J 
ifK-rt . 
i2 t 13, and 14. — Tht* «sime mode of procedure as No. n 

Original from 


a. Q— K Kt i , ch, etc 

a. Q K 2, etc. 

a. Q— K R i, ch, etc. 

2. Q— R 3, etc. 

2. Q— Kt a ( etc. 

2. g -R 2, etc. 

2. Q— g i, ch, etc. 

2. O-B 1, etc. 

a. (J— R 4, ch, etc. 

2. Q -K 8, ch, etc. 

2. Q -R 5, ch, etc 

2. K— Kt 7, etc. 

2- Q— g 4, dc. 

2. K -B 7, etc. 

2. g— Kt 7, etc. 

2. g -B 7, ch, etc. 


Puzzles and Solutions. By Henry E. Dudcncy* 

Can you place the point of your pencil on the black 
circle and in four consecutive straight strokes (without 
taking your pencil from the paper) enter every one of 
the white circles once ? We give as an example a 
solution in five strokes, but it can be done in four. 

The largest sum of money that can be written in 
pounds, shillings, pence, and farthings, using each of 
the nine digits once and only once, is ^98^76545. 3Jd. 
Now, try to discover the smallest sum of money that 
can be written down under precisely the same con- 
ditions. There must be some value given for each 
denomination — pounds, shillings, pence, and farthings 
— and the nought may not l>e used. It requires just a 
little judgment and thought. 


In the issue of this magazine for December, 1909, 

we gave a problem in which six black kings are 

checkmated simultaneously on the second move. 

A reference was also made to the fact that Mr. Water- 


VI iy %:'.'} !H. 

iU# ; u,;*y 



y v:m^ 

Q«r ; .-J U'i*0 




U>i !?,>i 'r„.i 

&.X &: '{.'} 


Mate the ten black kings in one move, 
bury had composed a problem in winch nine kings are 
simultaneously mated on the ninth move. We now 
give a curious arrangement by Mr. G. Reichhelm, in 
which as many as ten black king.- can be mated in 
one ni( ve. There is, of course, no difficulty whatever 
in finding the solution. The interest lies in the fact 
(unless some reader can disprove it) that more than 

ten kings cannot be simultaneously checkmated. This 
is the record, and many readers will doubtless like to 
be made acquainted with the curiosity. 

Some youngsters recently bought twenty cakes of 
chocolate for twenty pence. Plain chocolate was 
four cakes a penny, milk chocolate was two cakes a 
penny, and there was a special choice confection at 
fourpence a cake. How did they invest their money ? 

Solutions to Last MontVs Puzzles. 


When the guard said, " Too-too-too-too-too-too, , 
he simply meant, " Two to 2 to 2.2," or that they had 
to wait from two minutes to two o'clock until two 
minutes past two o'clock — four minutes. By the 
answer, " Faw-faw-faw-faw-faw-faw," the other official 
meant that they were waiting " for 4.4 for Forfar." 


It is hardly necessary to inform the reader that 
wherever the two trains 4, met" (that is, when the 
fronts of the engines were side by side on parallel 
lines) the London train must have been nearest to 



One floor was 38 feet square (1,444 stones) and the 
other 26 feet square (676 stones). There were thus 
2,120 stones in all, and the side of one square floor 
was 12 feet longer than that of the other, 

Place numbered counters as in the diagram r.nd the 
puzzle is to exchange 2 with 5 in the fewest possible 



• ! 





Play as follows : 2, 5, 4, 2, I, 3, 3, 4> 5> r > 4> 2, 3, 4, 
I, 5, 2, and it is solved in 17 moves. 

Five stamps at twopence, thirty stamps at one 
penny, and eight stamps at twopence -halfpenny will 
comply with the conditions. 

The three numbers 25, 6, and 19 add up 50. 

The man worked logh days and idled 255$ days. 

by \j 



When my friend telegraphed, "NO WAY, I'M 
SURE/' he did not intend to imply that no roiution 
is possible, but to give the correct and only answer ! 
If you first visit the town N, then O, then W, and so 
on in the order of the letters in his sentence, you will 
get to town E after visiting every other town once 
and once only. 

Original from 


\We shaM be g!ad t& receive Contributions to this section* and to pay for such as are accepted.] 

" A SKiN to dim 

/\ You where to go 
To get relief when in great pain. 
Mr. F, l\ Tung, 
Dental Surgeon , 
Will make you laugh and smile -again." 
Bo he will, because the sign was presented to him by 
a patient showing the " before " and the " alter" of 
his wonderful treatment. Under each jx>r trait are the 
words* " Fine Hand." — Mr. Bert el Skow, Pharmacist, 
Philippine General Hospital, Manila, Philippine 


THERE are few more difficult subjects to paint or 
sketch than the living creatures seen in our 
great Zoological Gardens. To facilitate the work of 
the artists, the authorities at the New York Zoological 
Park have converted the end of their lion -house into 
a studio, where those so inclined can sit and sketch 
the various animals from life without fear of inter* 
nipt ion. The model stand is a wire! routed cage, 
nineteen feet long, nine feet deep, and seven feet high, 
with its floor raised two and a half feet above that 
of the room in front. The back, 'top, and sides of the 
cage are connwsed of solid pi ate- glass- The roof glass 
is opaque, the remainder clear. To control the light, 

dark olive- green shades on rollers, easily operated 
from the front, are provided. The animal selected is 
transferred in a novel manner- It is enticed into a 
shifting cage, which is brought up through the floor 
of the studio. The subject is then liberated, when the 
cage sinks until the top comes flush with the floor. 
One lion, known as Sultan, seen in our photograph, 
a magnificent creature of its kind, has been painted 
and modelled by artists and sculptors over a hundred 
times*— Mr. H. J, Shepstone, 35* A inner Road t Clapham 
Common, S.W. 


HERE is a photograph of a celebrated Chinese 
priest, resident in Shanghai, showing the length 
to which the natives of this country will go in order 
to gain notoriety and draw in the money. In the case 
of this individual, his holiness and M Good Joss n are 
apparently gauged by the length of his finger-nails, 
the longest of which is twenty- two and three-quarter 
inches in length being, as far as can be learned, a 

record for this country of long nails* 
When not on show he is so mindful of his 
treasures that he wears them in guards 
made of hollow bamboo, as seen in the 
larger photograph, and great precau- 
tions are taken that they do not get 
broken. They appear to be a money- 
making concern, as, in a conversation 
with the writer, he stated that up till 
the present year he has had plenty of 
business, and worshippers at his temple 
have Ijeen very numerous. It is only to 
lie hoped that the ministers of the 
Gospel at home do not attempt to 
copy his idea to draw the back- 
sliders, as he states that it took him 
twenty -seven years of careful cultiva- 
tion before they reached their present 
length,— Mr. James II. Tait, Hongkew 





BECAUSE their mother had a propensity for killing 
her cubs r the keeper of the E List lake Zoo, Los 
Angeles, California., took the pair from her zn*\ put 
them in charge of an Irish setter. The dog evinced 
no hostility toward these rather huge infants of the 
cat family, but took to the youngsters a I once and ^ave 
them all the care a mother can bestow. The whelps 
were less than three months old at the time the accom- 
panying photograph was taken. — Mr, W. T* Walsh, 
5 1 34° * Woodlawn Avenue, Chicago, Illinois, U.S. A* 


THIS trio of bears esca|>ed from a circus travelling 
in California! and the farmers in the vicinity 
aH armed themselves with shot-guns and prepared to 
defend their stock* Fearful of losing his menagerie for 
good, the proprietor at the circus offered a reward to 
anyone who would return the three truants in safety, 
and a young man who had seen them performing 
decided to win the reward. He had noticed that they 
were very fond of sweetened water, and it was one of 
their tricks to drink it out of bottles ; so he took a 
number of flasks of the same mixture in his car* and 
set out to find them. He was just in time to prevent 
a body of farmers from shooting them, and when he 
explained his plan, the enraged rustics allowed him to 
try it* Therefore a careful advance was made upon 
thej hears, while the bottles were extended invitingly ; 
ancf the animals took the bait so eagerly that there 
was no difficulty in luring them to the car. Once 
there, they were securely chained, but they had no 
desire to leave as long as the sweet water lasted. 
— Mr. C. L. Edliojm, 4,634, Figueroa Street, Los 
Angeles, California, U.S. A, 


YOU published in your " Curiosities" 
pages many years ago an interesting 
u Follow -rny-Leader picture, in which the 
miscreants were human beings. I now send 
you a photograph of a table which has been 
in the possession of a Dulwich family for over 
eighty yeais* During this time the various 
cats they have possessed have scratched one 
leg — and one leg only — till at last they so wore 
it away that it became useless and had to be 
replaced with a new leg ; aud the accompany- 

ing photograph shows the table just before this was 
done. The old leg is still in existence, if anybody 
would like to see it. On the table are two of the 
present-day offenders* — Mr. W. Croucher, 103, Friern 
Roadj Dulwich, S.E. 


THE puzzle was as follows-— 
In reply to a question as-to how far he had 
travelled, a gentleman once said : *' One -tenth over 
one thousand miles/' What was the distance ? 

The most obvious interpretation of this some- 
what eccentric statement Is that he went i, 000 miles 
and one- tenth ol 1,000 miles, making altogether 
1,100 miles* If, however, we take what he said 
literally, we find that he was merely playing a practi- 
cal joke, as follows : — r >,H^ " *** x ^^ = "^ 
Oi a mile = six inches approximately ! 


I WAS very much amused with Mr- Ritchie's 
clever Animal Doubles which appeared in a 
recent number of The Strand Magazine, and 
now send you the name of a remarkable hybrid 
which I think it would puzzle the cleverest artist 
to depict. The name is, Cameleph an telopeli cant- 
eater mine wt — a composite, as will be seen, of the 
foDowing mmift : Camel, elephant, antelope, 
pelican, ant-eater, ermine, newt, — Mr. Mandeville 
EL Phillips^'lttflfn^tfafef^uare, London, W.C 




0$ '4ii rat. 

' -. 





BY turning the handle at the side or starting the 
clockwork motor (shown at the end), this billiard- 
player automatically makes breaks of two or three 
hundred on his model table, going in off the red ball, 
A la G- Gray* I am caretaker at the Stafford Institute, 
and have made the model in my spare time. It has 
taken me about three months to complete it, the 
materials consisting o£ odd pieces o£ wood, one tin -lid, 
one cycle-spoke, one knitting-needle, and numerous bits 
of wire and tin. The table is covered with real billiard 
cloth. — Mr. Sidney J, Brown, The Institute, Stafford, 


WE all like our little joke, and Eastern potentates 
have from time im memorial enjoyed the reputa- 
tion ol being the merriest of monarchs. The Moorish 
palace of Su Han Abu Yakob Yussuf at Seville — known 
to-day as the ** Alcazar Jt — contains one of the most 
elaborate practical jokes extant. In the background 
of the photograph may be seen a pavilion > where 
presumably the Sovereign whiled away the summer 
heat. When in a £ay mood, some important me reliant 
or notable of Seville would receive a pressing invitation 
summoning him to the presence. In a fever of dc- 
baited expt'i.-i:mcy the flattered guest would don his 
whitest raiment and hie him to the palace. There he 
wmild l>e ceremoniously conducted to the gardens and 
directed up the long avenue seen in the photograph 

Digitized by V_Ti 

But alas ! Half-way up it he would inevitably tread 
upon a moving flagstone resting upon a spring* and 
immediately countless fine jets of water would push 
out of the ground and from the surrounding shrubbery 
and drench him. Amid the jeers of the courtiers, the 
luckless and bedraggled wight would beat an undignified 
retreat. Before be was allowed to leave the pakicc, 
however, he was sworn to secrecy on pain of death. 
At all costs nothing must make the joke fall flat when 
repeated- The treacherous flagstone has been removed t 
and to-day the visitor may pass with impunity ; but 
a peseta to the head gardener will usually cause the 
fountains to play. Not many people know of their 
existence, however. The water is sprayed through 
hundreds of tiny pipes, so small as to be almost in- 
visible, which are placed in the cracks between the 
flagstones, Those in the shrubs on either side were 
not in working order at the time of my own visit.— 
Mr, C, E. S, Palmer, British Vice-Consul, Dardanelles. 


readers of 
The Strand should 
be interested in the 
accompanying photo- 
graph of a pike, 
weighing over three 
quarters of a pound 
and measuring seven- 
teen inches t which I 
took from the gullet 
of a cormorant. I 
shot the bird on the 
Shannon, near Castle- 
connell, a few 
moments after he 
had swallowed his 
breakfast, I have 
often taken eels, fry, 
and even fluke from 
their capacious gul- 
lets, but I have never 
heard of their attack- 
ing pike, — Mr. Ian G. 
Matterson, Castle 
Troy House, Limerick 


ERE arc two Chinese ornaments made of shells, 
of which nearly four hundred were used for 

each figure. The 
faces are composed 
of the small shells 
which arc so plenti- 
ful round the Eng- 
lish coast — small 
double ones beiu^ 
selected to form 
the mouths — 
while a piece of 
seaweed was uti- 
lized for a beard. 
The sou 1 -wester is 
a cockle-shell, and 
the hands and feet 
are cut from the 
serrated part of the 
same kind of shelL 
—Mr. F. C Davis, 
4 6 P Hill Road, 





OFf THLl^WORftEUIlr Jf£LLtrt t V(LiOI.ARN^rN£iNtrAYrHlWC 
Ti 6 ASL OTHf.K ISfcW OF F.4NCY W0IU.r<JVA&*lLV PflKtflS 
TWTUnCkf AttnsmiFF tNALL JT\f UrHH£Hir.ArTlMES U CfltJf L 

^Jftr^ flrJTAJHflNAar WAPE.CtfX.HEK^VOVi^-^IfiO- *HDAii.OTtf£i> 
CASTDCW^TL/rf BAKrfrniAR.i.UAMl'OyLE TA/ ^rTLE^Al.nOrrtEP 
RE/tfY 0H IJUM **D ALL HAR&WAA^.J HAJ L*!P in A Li UF * 
HE^/ir/ttCrWr-RCLLEi" ^UGIUCBtfflfl&j -.AKF.PED JN ^ jij* m 

O or J r ■ n rt ij mi?^ DlVlflb J /i .1 *»r* » a «».«Mtoa _ _ . . . 

JjM«A*T(tA/ AN* cTHER c HUHF.£.rTRI Ck J • i 'W 

A VILLAS J. " ViMMY -1.1 All : ' 
*H1S remarkable signboard was discovered 
in a Cornish village by the late Mr. 
Ilumimaiip who wels so struck with the 
unique orthography, as well as the comprehensive 
naLure of the clainis and capacities of Roger Giles, 
fturgin, that he entered the shop in which the 
board was proudly displayed and, afier some diffi- 
culty, succeeded in purchasing it. For many years 
this signboard has been one of the most amusing 
features of the Ilorniman Museum- — Mr, Geo, H* 
Sweet, 3, Oliver Grove, South Norwood, S E, 

T^HE contrivance here shown is the fire* 
1 alarm of the prettily-situated town o[ 
Fernic in the Rocky Mountains. It consists 
of a railway's rail bent in the shape of a 
triangle and suspended by a strong cord 
from a wooden tripod* In case of an out- 
break of fire the first dutv of a citizen is to 

f ' 


. t ± ^^ 


™ **££ 





run to the alarm and bang away at it either 
with an iron rod or a hammer, The (greater 
part of the town of Fernic was burnt to the 
ground some years apo, and the houses seen 
in the photograph and this new lire-alarm 
have been erected since then. — Dr. A. 
Simon, Arundel* Park Road, Sklcup. 




I WONDER if any of your readers can write 
" Constantinople/ 1 in capital letters, with a line 
through it, without taking the pen off the paper, with- 
out crossing a line or going over the same line twice ? 
As will be seen from the example given, this is by 
no means a difficult task p once the method is known. 
— Mr. J. Qui n Ian, Stony hurst College^ Black burn. 

Another Bridge Problem* 

By Wladimir de Ro2in£. 

Hearts — Ace, king, io. 
Diamonds — Ace, id, 7. 
Clubs—' 10, 4, 
Spades- -King, 7, 3* 

Hearts— Queen. 9. 

T * I . I |l IUTt|| ■-. — ( J LJ i' I' 1 ■■ 

Clubs— 8, 7. 
Spades — Ace, qUMfii 

i0 f a, 6, 2. 


Heart*— 8, 5, 
Diamond a — K ing, 

knave, o 3 8, 6, 4, 
Clubs. — Aee t knave, 6. 
Spades — None. 

No Trumps, 

Hcaris— Knave, 3. 
Diamonds — 3^ 

Clubs — King, qu*en, 9, .c, s. 
Spades— Kn^vc, 9, 4. 
A has ihe lead. A and ]f are to make seven 

by Google 

Y B 

Spades 7 Spndes 

Hgart!^ klftg Hearts a 
H»ns 5 Hraris in 

Diamonds king DianiDnd^ 4 
HcflrHtjuecn He arts ace 
CUibc 4 
DLinionds 9 

Spades queen 
Hearts 3 
Heart's 4 
Diamonds ace 
Heails knave 
Diamonds 3 
Diamonds qun 
Dmnmrids kvc Spades 5 3 
Spad es ace Spades to 

Hearts a 

Diamonds 6 

Clubs 6 

Spades 4 
S|»;ide> king Spades g 
Gub^7 Gtibs ? 

Clulw S Clubs ace 

Clubs ktng Sjia dct knav e 

Tbe winning card in each irick is underlined. The variations, 
depending on tbe opponent's pl<iy, will be easily found. 

Original from 

Spades 5 
Clubs queen 
Clubs 5 
Clubs 10 



Spades a 
Hearts 6 
\\ r -,i : :- 7 
Diamonds 1 
Hearts 9 
Diamond-s 3 
Diamonds 7 
Diamonds 3 
Spades 6 
Clubs 9 
Clubs knave 
Clubs 3 
Diamonds 10 

C^f\r%ct\i* Original from 



(See page 125,} 

Original from 

by Google 


Vol. xliiL 

FEBRUARY, 1912. 

No. 2154. 

The Black Pearls of Balgarno. 


Illustrated by Alec Ball. 

EBASTIAN IDRIS had bought 
a Jacobean chair, in a moment 
of sinful extravagance, after 
selling a picture for a sum 
larger than might have been 
expected. The chair stood 
conspicuous upon the dais; 

and — as Idris remarked to Miss Fay Benson 
— what a comfort to reflect that a connoisseur 
had offered an impecunious painter forty 
guineas for an article which cost a tenner ! 
The front splat and top rail were embellished 
with crowns and Stuart roses, and the central 
crown was supported by amorini indicating 
the love and loyalty of the Royalists for 
their Merry Monarch. Lions' paws, with 
hair above them, symbolized also the strength 
of the Constitution after the Restoration. 
The back was of the original Jacobean cane, 
but the seat was covered with faded needle- 
work oi a later period. The few women who 
sat to Idris were posed in this wonderful 

One day Fay Benson remarked : — 

" Really, Mr. Idris, you ought to have that 
exquisite needlework cleaned." 

Later, when Fay became engaged to Idris, 
she insisted upon removing the needlework 
and cleaning it herself. We refrain from 
describing the condition of the horsehair 
stuffing beneath the cover. Idris tore it out 
with tongs and burnt it. Under the horse- 
hair, in the middle of the seat, he found a 
small leather bag tied with silk and sealed, 
but the seal was indecipherable. 

" Treasure trove ! " exclaimed Fay. 

The young lady opened the bag with fingers 
quivering with excitement. To the chagrin 

Vol. xltii. — 9* Copyright, 191a, by Horace Ann< 

of the lovers it contained nothing more inte- 
resting than a number of black beads about 
the size of shoe-buttons. Upon the bag was 
some writing. By the aid of a magnifying- 
glass, Idris made out " 125 " in numerals, a 
word that might be " black," a half-erased 
capital "B," a small " e," an " a," and 
farther on an " s." 

" What a beastly sell ! " said Idris. 

" But why," added Fay, thoughtfully, 
11 should anyone bother to hide beads in an 
arm-chair ? " She counted them. Yes ; there 
were one hundred and twenty-five, of slightly 
varying size. 

"Oh, Sebastian!" she cried; "fancy if 
they had been diamonds ! " 

Idris nodded gloomily. He was " going 
behind " and he knew it. Without undue 
conceit he could affirm that his best work was 
worthy of recognition. Unhappily, he had 
never been able to afford the right " plant " 
or " pitch." His studio was nearly as bare 
as Mother Hubbard's cupboard, and situated 
in the remoter part of West Kensington. 
His friends, also, were strivers like himself, 
not thrivers. He could paint admirable 
portraits, but poverty prevented him from 
meeting likely clients. Till now, beauty and 
rank, whether together or apart, had remained 
coldly aloof. Fay was enthusiastically of the 
opinion that if her clever Sebastian could 
paint a beautiful duchess Fame and Fortune 
would be assured. He had achieved some 
success with a kit-cat of Sir Jonathan Horn- 
castle, a City knight who lived in Peckham. 
He had since painted Lady Horncastle, two 
of her children, and three cousins. That 
had exhausted what miners call — the lead I 

The beads sue very pretty," said Fay. 




She picked up the magnifying-glass and "Oh, Sebastian, what do you think they 

examined them more carefully. Then she are worth ? ' 

moistened with water the faded writing. *' I Ve no idea, but I shall find out at once." 

Suddenly she gasped. " How ? n 

" Sebastian," she exclaimed, trembling " In these cases it is wise to consult an 


with excitement ; " it's a capital ' P/ not 
a l B ' ; they are black pearls. I am quite 
sure of it." 

Idris found that his own hand was shaking 
as he took the bag from her. Yes, the writing 
was plain enough — 

" 125 Black Pearls I " 

Digitized by GoOgk 

expert, I shall take the biggest to Hancock's, 
in Bond Street. You wait till I come back. 
You might begin to clean the needlework.' 1 

She clutched him, looking up into his face. 

" This may mean " 

" Everything/ 7 replied Idris, as he kissed 

Original from 



At Bancock's Idris asked to see the great 
man, who emerged presently from a back 
room and stared curiously at his visitor. He 
beheld a tall, slim young man, rather pale, 
carrying a fine head upon broad shoulders. 
The head might have belonged to a poet, a 
painter, or a musician. Bancock felt reason- 
ably certain that it belonged to an honest man. 

" What can I do for you, sir ? " 

" I have a black pearl in my pocket/' said 
Idris. Despite his shabby clothes, he felt 
able to play his part. " I want you to look 
at it," he continued, lightly, " for I know 
absolutely nothing about black pearls, and 
this one may be a poor specimen. I always 
try to get the best information on any subject, 
so I came to you." 

Mr. Bancock bowed. 

Idris fished the pearl out of his waistcoat 
pocket and dropped it into the expert's pink 
palm. Mr. Bancock, with a glass stuck into 
his eve, examined it carefullv. 

" May I weigh it ? " 

" Certainly." 

This was done. Then Authority spoke. 

"It's a very fine pearl. As to its value — 
well, anything between one hundred and one 
hundred and fifty pounds. It is pierced, and 
may have been one of a pair of earrings." 

" It is, or was, part of a necklace of one 
hundred and twenty-five pearls." 

" Are you sure of that ? " 

Idris laughed, because the great man's 
expression was so portentously solemn. 

14 Why do you ask ? " 

" Because I happen to know the famous 
black pearl necklaces. There are not many 
of them. And if there is a necklace of one 
hundred and twenty-five such pearls as this, 
I should like to see it. If it is for sale, by 
any chance " 

He paused discreetly, smiling at Idris, 
divining that some great lady had entrusted 
a handsome young gentleman with a delicate 

" Yes ? " 

" We might bid for it. Black pearls, rare 
as they are, have a limited market. I might 
be able to place this." 

Idris pulled out his card-case. 

" That's my name," he said. " I am a 
painter — a portrait painter. You say you 
could place it ? " 

" I think so. Will you come into my room, 
Mr. Idris ? We have a client, a well-known 
American millionaire, who has commissioned 
us to find him a double necklace of black 
pearls. Is that of interest to you ? " 

" Of the greatest interest," said Idris. 

" I thought it might be." 

" I am much obliged to you," said Idris. 
" If these pearls are sold, Mr. Bancock, you 
shall have the first refusal of them." 

He returned to the studio afire with excite- 
ment. The treasure trove was his ! The 
pearls had been hidden in the chair at least 
a hundred years, possibly much more. There 
was not a scrap of paper to show to whom 
they had belonged. 

He found Fay cleaning the needlework, 
which she had stretched upon a board. 

" Fay," he said, solemnly, " we are rich 
beyond the dreams of avarice." 

He caught hold of her, and they waltzed 
round the studio. When Fay begged him to 
stop, the young man took a turn with the 
lay figure. The girl returned to her task, 
and at once perceived that the "cleaning 
mixture had brought out the soft tints of the 
silks. She picked up the board and carried 
it to the middle of the room, where the light 
from the big studio fell full upon it. Sebastian 
hurled the lay figure on to a sofa. 

" Let's go out and buy things," he sug- 

" What sort of things ? " 

" Theatre tickets for to - night — two 
stalls ! " 

" Stalls ! How lovely ! Do you know 
that I believe this is a sampler? " 

" What ? " 

Idris knew that samplers were generally 
signed, and his face clouded. It cleared 
again as he examined the needlework. 
Letters glowed faintly out of a creamy back- 
ground, but it was impossible to make words 
of them. 

u It does look like a sampler," he admitted. 

" Perhaps," said Fay, nervously, " it is 
a cipher." 

They stared at each other, knowing 
instantly — as they confessed afterwards — 
that it was a cipher. And the pearls — so 
the great Bancock had affirmed — might be 
worth anything between ten and fifteen 
thousand pounds ! 

" You are right, Fay ! " he exclaimed, 
hoarsely. " It is a cipher." 

He shivered, although the room was warm, 
for the blood seemed to be flowing out of his 
body. He told himself miserably that the 
hider of the pearls had worked upon the 
needlework some message which would reveal 
the secret of this amazing concealment, and 
establish, perhaps, the real ownership of the 
necklace. He gazed at the fire, which burnt 
brightly : then he looked at Fay. Her face 



was white as milk, and her eyes seemed to be 
reading his heart. 

" What are you going to do ? " she faltered. 

He replied fiercely : " I shall decipher that 
message. It may be nothing at all." 

" And — and — if it should be something ? " 

Idris made no answer. He picked up a 
pencil and sheet of paper. Then he copied 
out the letters, arranging them in columns, 
in order to discover the more likely vowels. 
Fay filled his pipe and brought it to him. 
She stood near to him, watching his face, 
grim and tense with concentration ; watching 
his fine hands as he wrote out different com- 
binations of words. For an hour neither 
spoke. Then Idris said in a loud, unnatural 
voice, " I have it. Wait one moment ! " 

She came nearer to him, and rested her 
hand upon his shoulder, as he read aloud : — 

" I, Betty Balgarno, have hid my pearls in 
this chair, knowing right well that in these 
troublous times they may be taken from my 
dear lord." 

" Balgarno," said Idris, " is an odd name, 
but quite familiar to me." 

"Isn't there a Lord Balgarno ? " asked 

Amongst his books, Idris found an old 
Peerage. He turned to Balgarno. Yes ; the 
present holder of the barony lived at Balgarno 
House, near Edinburgh. He appeared to be 
lineally descended from a certain David, 
seventh baron, who was attainted as a 
Jacobite during Queen Anne's reign. David 
died abroad. His title and estates, forfeit 
to the Crown, had been restored to his son 
James during the reign of George I. The 
present peer was a widower of sixty-five. 

Fay murmured, miserably, " Of course, the 
pearls are his." 

Then a voice seemed to whisper into 
Sebastian's ear : — 

" Burn that cover, you fool ! In with it — 
now ! " 

He picked it up, almost mechanically, and 
crossed to the fire, as another and a clearer 
voice made itself heard : — 

" Drop it into the flames, and brand your- 
self as a thief for ever ! " 

The sweat started on his skin as he turned 
to meet the eyes of the woman who loved and 
respected him. He stammered out : — 

" Fay, I— I can't do it. I can't do it." 

She flew to him, flinging her arms about his 
neck, kissing his lips with a passion that 
amazed him. 

" I knew you couldn't. Oh, Sebastian, 
if you had done it, I — God help me ! — I feel 
that you would have burnt my love also." 

Next day Idris paid a second visit to Mr. 
Bancock, who greeted the young fellow with 
a cheering smile. 

" I have just received a telegram from my 
client," he said, blandly. " He has instructed 
me to buy your pearls if we can come to terms." 

" The pearls are not for sale, Mr. Bancock." 

The man of many diamonds and much 
experience shrugged his shoulders. 

" The lady, I take it, has changed her 
mind ? " 

Idris, in reply, told his story. He con- 
cluded simply : — 

" The pearls belong to Lord Balgarno, and 
I shall return them to him." 

Mr. Bancock prided himself upon a tem- 
perament that nothing could disturb. 

" I am happy," he said, " to have the 
honour of knowing you, Mr. Idris." 

Idris blushed. 

" May I suggest," continued Mr. Bancock, 
" that you entrust me with what is likely 
to prove a delicate negotiation ? " 

" I don't quite understand, Mr. Bancock." 

" Lord Balgarno is a notorious pincher. 
You are entitled to a very handsome reward, 
sir — let us say ten per cent, at least of the 
value of the pearls." 

" Urn ! " said Idris. Then, abruptly and 
still blushing, he blurted out, " I — I have 
been tempted to pocket those pearls, Mr. 
Bancock ; and now — well, I am sure you 
will understand me when I say that I want to 
hand 'em over to the rightful owner without 

" As you please," said Mr. Bancock. " Let 
us hope that his lordship for once will do the 
real right thing." 

When this talk was reported to Fay, she 
remarked that her dear Sebastian had simply 
fortified her conviction that he was a perfect 

Two days later Idris travelled to Edinburgh, 
and in due time presented himself at Balgarno 
House. He was ushered into a fine library, 
where he found Lord Balgarno warming a 
yellcw, shrivelled pair of hands over a wood 
fire. The portrait painter was at once 
repelled by a face which bore a striking 
resemblance to that of Louis XL Idris had 
seen H. B. Irving in his father's famous role, 
and the way in which the old man crouched 
in his big chair, rubbing his hands and cackling, 
his furtive glances and his shabby dressing- 
gown, confirmed Mr. Bancock's affirmation 
that his lordship was a skinflint of the first 




When Idris had finished his s'.ory, Lord 
Balgarno received the pearls, which he counted 
carefully, In a thin, piping voice he said, 
querulously : — 

" Have you brought the chair ? " 

" You must be well off to keep a chair 
worth fifty pounds." 

" I'm an obscure portrait painter ; the 
chair happens to be my most valuable pro* 



" The chair is mine/* said Idris. M I gave " A portrait painter, are you ? " 

ten pounds for it." Idris nodded. 

" I'll give you fifteen, young man." " What's your lowest price for a half-length 

" It's worth fifty," said Idris, ll and it's portrait ? " 

not for sale, my lord." " That depe©ftgjrSif fjtityftthan Horncastle 

The old gentleman frowned. paid me ^^q^^ F MICHIGAN 



" Was he satisfied with your work ? " 

" I painted his wife and two children after- 

Lord Balgarno chuckled. 

" Will you paint me, Mr. Idris — with my 
pearls ? " 

" Yes," said Idris, without hesitation. 

11 For fifty— pounds ? " 

As Ihe young man remained silent, Lord 
Balgarno added : " I want to do something 
handsome for you in return for what you've 
done for me." 

He cackled derisively, not looking at the 
astonished Idris, but gloating over the pearls, 
which lay in a small heap upon the table at 
his side. Idris realized that his hope of a 
substantial reward had shrivelled like the 
face opposite. This old fellow was obviously 
the king of pinchers. The desire to paint 
him as such flashed into the artist's mind. 

Five minutes later the affair was settled, 
and Idris found himself walking back to 
Edinburgh. He relieved his feelings by 
writing to Fay : — 

" I should have loved to punch his ugly 
old head, but I'll paint it instead. I'll reveal 
him to himself as he is. He offered to throw 
in board and lodging, but his porridge would 
choke me." 

Within twenty-four hours he had begun 
work, and continued feverishly until the por- 
trait was finished. Never had he laboured 
with such appetite, never had he been con- 
scious of such ability to set forth what his 
eyes beheld. Inspired by hate, he loathed 
his model, who talked unceasingly, revealing 
a mind as warped and shrivelled as his face. 
And he made Idris talk, asked questions 
which had to be answered, answers received 
with a derisive cackle or a scathing bit of irony. 

" Engaged to a girl as poor as yourself," 
he had snarled out. " Smitten by a pretty 
face — hay ? " 

" By more than that, my lord." 

" Two good-looking young fools." 

" If it is folly to be poor and good-looking, 
how wise you must be ! " said Idris. 

He had discovered, much to his satisfaction, 
that he could say what he liked to his model. 
The old man merely snarled, and then Idris 
would smile as he added one more revealing 
touch to the canvas. 

To his utter confounding, Lord Balgarno 
appeared to be mightily pleased with the 

" It's worth the money and more, too." 

" I hope you will allow me to exhibit it ? " 

" Does it add to the value of a portrait to 
exhibit it ? " 

igiiized by L*OOQle 

" If it is well hung — yes." 

" Where would you exhibit it ? " 

" At the Academy— if they'll have it." 

" Of course they'll have it." 

" There's no ' of course ' about it." 

The pride of an ancient family flared. 

" What ! You think they would refuse to 
hang — me ? " 

" High as Haman, if they knew you," was 
on the tip of Sebastian's tongue. He said 
instead : " It's not a question of hanging 
you, but of hanging me." 

That night he wrote to Fay : — 

" It's incredible. He wants the world to 
stare at his awful face. I believe he's proud 
of it. And he's chattering with senile delight 
because he knows that the thing is dirt- 
cheap at the price. It is out and out my 
best bit of work." 

Within ten days the portrait was finished. 
Lord Balgarno hopped about in front of it, 
rubbing his hands and grinning malevolently. 

" Done me justice — hay ? " 

" I hope so," said Idris. 

" They'll take it ? " 

" Perhaps."- 

" I shall make that my affair. I know some 
of 'em. I can pull strings when I want to." 

" I am quite sure of that, my lord." 

" It's as good as the Raeburn in the dining- 
room. My grandfather got that dirt-cheap." 

" I wonder what your Jacobite ancestor 
paid for the black pearls ? " 

" Thev were loot, so I have been told." 


Idris returned to West Kensington, and 
his Fay met hiir at eight in the morning, 
when the night express rolled into Elision. 
Up to the last moment, futile though he knew 
expectation to be, he had hoped that a cheque 
would be drawn for more than fifty pounds. 
And indeed the cheque was made out for 
guineas, but Lord Balgarno remarked^ as he 
handed it to Idris : — 

" Buy a frame for fifty shillings." 

" Didn't he offer to pay your expenses ? " 
asked Fay. 

" Not he ! " 

" Well, of all " 

" 'Shush-h-h ! I have had my revenge. 
Wait till you see the picture." 

Fay replied, poutingly : — 

" Waiting seems to be our lot in life, 

Idris laughed, but he felt very blue as he 
muttered : " I suppose Bancock was right. 
He might have squeezed a thousand out of 
the old beast." 

Fay rose tc tht occasion, 








" You did the right thing, darling. I'm 
ever so proud of you ; and you must ' get 
there ' in time." 

" I don't care where I get, provided I get 
you," replied her fond lover. 

The portrait was framed and sent to 
Burlington House. Most of Sebastian's 
fellow-craftsmen received notice that their 
pictures were rejected. Sebastian heard 
nothing — a good sign. At the last moment 
his dealer told him that his portrait was hung 
on the line. 

" His lordship can pull strings," said Idris 
to Fay, as they were celebrating the event at 
a modest restaurant in Soho. 

" Pooh ! " said Fay. " The moment I saw 
the picture I knew that it was a masterpiece." 

" That sounds splendid," said Idris ; " but 
I made him so infernally ugly. People will 
funk employing me." 

Upon the day of the private view, as the 
lovers entered the long gallery, Fay saw a 
crowd of fashionable folk in front of one of the 
pictures. An odd pang assailed her. 

" Oh, Sebastian ! " she whispered. " If 
that were only your picture ! " 

" It's Pynsent's," said Idris, but his voice 
was trembling, for he knew that his picture 
hung next to a Pynsent. They sauntered up, 
trying to hide their feelings. Fay whispered 
excitedly : — 

" The crowd is in front of your picture." 

" And, by Jove, he's amongst them ! " 
exclaimed Idris. 

" Who is ? " 

11 Lord Balgarno." 

The old man was close to his portrait, appa- 
rently gloating over it, and quite regardless 
of the crowd. Suddenly he saw Idris and 
shambled up to him, staring maliciously at 

" Is this your fiancSe ? " he asked. 

" Yes," said Idris. 

" Pray present me to her." 

Idris did so. 

" I've made this young man's reputation," 
said Lord Balgarno to Fay. 

She replied, firmly : — 

"Oh, no!" 

" Wha-a-at ? Everybody is talking of my 

" Sebastian has made his own reputation.*' 

" Tut, tut ! Did they hang Sir What's- 
his-name ? Or his wife ? Or his two brats ? 
My dear young lady, i repeat — I've made 

by \j 



him. He can ask two hundred for his next 

" I hope he'll ask more than that," said 
Fay, calmly. Lord Balgarno stared at her 
with increasing interest, cackling and rubbing 
his hands. 

" Very good, very good indeed ! You see 
to it that he asks for every farthing that he 
can get, neither more nor less. Did you 
persuade him to return the pearls ? " 

" No." 

" Wanted him to keep 'em — hay ? " 

" No." 

" We stole 'em, originally." 

He looked so like a monkey grabbing nuts 
that Fay laughed. 

" I am not surprised to hear that," she 
murmured, sweetly. 

Lord Balgarno chuckled, as he fished out of 
a pocket a crumpled newspaper. Idris was 
unable to determine whether the old man 
was shaking with rage or amusement as he 
asked : " Which of you two sent the story 
of the pearls to the papers ? " 

He glanced sharply at Idris, who replied, 
stiffly : " I didn't." 

" I did," said Fay. 

" You ? " exclaimed Idris. 

" I got five pounds for it." 

Lord Balgarno sniffed. 

" It's worth five hundred as an advertise- 
ment," he remarked, critically. " Well, my 
dear, I'm glad to have met you, and I'm glad 
that this young man met you first. He told 
me that he wasn't attracted by your good 
looks alone ; and I didn't believe him then. 
When you get married, let me know. I'll 
send you a nice present." 

He shambled off, still chuckling, and pleased 
as a child because everybody, was staring at 

They were married in July, and it is not very 
probable that the wolf Poverty will ever 
knock at the door of the new studio in which 
Idris is painting " speaking likenesses " of 
the brave and the fair. The portrait of the 
pincher did make his reputation ; and Lord 
Balgarno Maintains that an adequate reward 
was paid for the return of the pearls. His 
wedding-present to Fay, a piece of china from 
the china-closet at Balgarno House, might 
have been worth fifteen shillings. 

When Idris helped Fay to unpack it, he 
exclaimed : " Inferior paste — and cracked." 

Fay laughed. 

" So is Lord Balgarno," she remarked. 

Original from 

From Behind Hie Speaker's Chair. 


(new series.) 
Illustrated by E. T. Reed. 

THE still young House of 

a page of Commons , meeting in this 

secret month of February for its 

history. Second Session, will have 

brought back to it with fresh 
shock the stupendous change that has taken 
place within its ranks since it last met to 
debate the Address in reply to the Speech 
from the Throne. Midway in the Autumn 
Session, when, as a bolt from the blue, came 
announcement of Mr. Balfour's resignation 
of the Leadership, the effect was literally so 
stunning, and consequent procedure so hurried, 
that members hardly had time to realize the 
new situation. This 
month, starting 
upon what pro- 
mises to be one of 
the most momen- 
tous Sessions of 
modern times, it 
finds Mr. Balfour's 
long - familiar 
place occupied by 
ar. other. 

Those in personal 
comm unication 
with the actors in 
what actually was 
a tragedy know that 
the change effected 
last November was 
more sudden and 
unexpected than is 
commonly sup- 
posed. It was on 
\ V cdnesd ay, No v- 
ember 8th, that Mr. 
Balfour, meeting a 
hastily - summoned 
gathering of the 
Executive Com- 
mittee of his politi- 
cal party in the 
City, announced his 
immediate resigna- 
tion. Only on the 
previous day some 
of his leading 
colleagues in the 



Opposition were made acquainted with his 
final irrevocable decision. It is true he 
had from time to time, since Parliament 
resumed its sittings, betrayed irritation 
against the critics and grumblers who, in his 
speech to the Committee, he likened to 
microbes infesting, sometimes with fatal 
effect, the human organism. That seemed 
natural enough and did not awaken feeling 
of alarm. It was generally conceded that 
as Leader of the , Unionist Party he was 
absolutely indispensable, and that, proudly 
conscious of the fact ? he would continue to 
maintain an attitude of lofty indifference to 

revolt as deliber- 
ately indicated by 
foundation of the 
Hals bury Club. 

Possibly that 
state of things 
directly led to the 
fateful conclusion. 
When a Minister 
has at his command 
an overwhelming 
majority in the 
House of Commons 
he is sure ; especially 
if he be a Liberal, 
to be subjected to 
pin - pricks in the 
form of Tea Room 
cabals and the like. 
On important divi- 
sions sections of his 
following abstain 
from the Division 
Lobby or, assured 
of the absolute 
safety of the pro- 
ceedings , even vote 
with the Opposi- 
tion, It pleases 
them, demonstrat- 
ing their intlipcnd- 
ence, and it does 
no harm to the 
Government. Thus 
the Halsbury Club 
and individual 





MIS* J,UMi ; " K'uVl' OO OS t INUtittU ! 

TOO, Pl.KASE !" 

Die- Hards felt they were quite safe in 
" pinking Arthur." Disillusion came with 
chilling influence when they read the report 
of his speech in the City, 

On Tuesday, November 7th, Mr. 
how Balfour's principal colleagues, 

B >nar law having been made acquainted 
came to the with news of his intention 

leadership, to resign only one day before 
it was public property, hastily 
foregathered to consider the question of a 
successor. Two names naturally suggested 
themselves: Mr* Walter Long, represen- 
tative of the steadily-diminishing element of 
the English county gentleman who, in Peel's 
time, was the backbone of the Conservative 
Party ; and Mr- Austen Chamberlain, deputy 
of his father as the Leader of the Tariff 
Reform Party, It was resolved to submit 
these rival claims to the arbitrament of the 
ballot. Within twenty- four hours it became 
clear that in the peculiar circumstances of 
the case this accustomed expedient would be 
fr Aught with grave disadvantage to a Party 
already staggering under the blow of with- 
drawal from the Leadership of its strongest 

man. Calculations made by the 
Whips showed that whilst Mr. Long 
was pretty sure to be elected his 
majority would not be of the sub- 
stantial character necessary to estab- 
lish his authority on a sound basis. 
Moreover, the acerbity of a contested 
election would further embitter differ- 
ences whose existence since the Tariff 
Reform flag was run up to the mast- 
head had grievously weakened the 
Party. Then sprang forth the happy 
thought, eagerly welcomed, of 
scratching the favourites and making 
possible a walk-over for an outsider* 
Fortunately there was, in the person 
of Mr, Bonar Law, one at hand 
worthy of the high position. He 
was , accordingly, unanimously, even 
enthusiastically ; elected, and peace 
with prospect of prosperity reigned 
in the tents of Israel. 

In a far-off way the episode 
recalls the familiar story of Cin- 
derella and the glass slipper, Mr. 
Bonar Law certainly did a good deal 
of obscure kite hen- work before he 
■was unexpectedly preferred to the 
place of honour. 

Whilst in the quality 
EARLIER of absolute unexpeo 
exits : tedness Mr. Balfour's 
retirement from 
Leadership stands apart, it resembles 
the precedent, established by Disraeli and 
observed by Gladstone, that the House of 
Commons heard what proved to be his last 
official speech all unknowing that never 
again would he address them in the capacity 
of Leader. It is exceedingly probable that 
when on October 25th Mr, Balfour, amid a 
rousing cheer from the great body of his 
followers desirous of disassociating themselves 
from " the microbes/' interposed in deb Ate he 
did not know that it was his last utterance in 
the capacity of Leader, Herein he differed 
alike from Disraeli and Gladstone. When, 
on a night in August , 1876, Disraeli wound 
up debate on Turkish iniquities in Bulgaria, 
he knew very well, and the secret was shared 
by his Cabinet colleagues, that on the morrow 
he would be proclaimed Earl of Beaconsfield, 
and might never more stroll up or down the 
floor of the House he had filled with his fame 
for full forty years. Similarly, Gladstone, 
denouncing the Lords* amendments to the 
Parish Councils Bill, on March 1st, 1894, 
hugged A .o his sallrnH breast the knowledge 



By chance I was present in 
Disraeli's, the House of Commons on 

the three historical occasions 
here referred to ; and have clear recollections 
of the scenes and the chief actors. It was 
late at night when Disraeli rose, welcomed by 
a bored House by reason of the fact that 
his interposition preluded the close of a weary 
debate. He showed signs of feeling the 
prevalent influence, the speech lacking his 
accustomed flashes of irony and invective. 
Appropriately — whether designedly or not 
who shall say ?— the last word spoken in the 
House of Commons was " Empire." When he 
resumed his seat members began to disperse. 
In accordance with the common practice of 
Ministers Disraeli was 
accustomed to quit 
the House by the 
passage behind the 
Speaker's Chair, On 
this memorable night 
he, with ceremonious 
bow to the Speaker 
as he passed the end 
of the Table , sauntered 
down the floor, and, 
turning about as he 
crossed the bar, stood 
for a moment survey- 
ing the stage of some 
tumultuous, many 
triumphant, episodes. 
Then he passed out 
through the glass 
door, carrying his I 
secret with him- The 
next time he visited 
the House he was 
seated in the Peers* [ 
Gallery with a gold- 
rimmed glass screwed 
into his eye, looking 

down with interest upon Mr. Joseph Gillis 
Biggar, who, at the moment, was defying 
the authority of the Chair from his place 
below the Gangway. 

Whilst Gladstone's last speech 
Gladstone's, in the House of Commons gave 

no sign of the coming event, 
shadows stretched before had indicated that 
retirement would not be long deferred. On the 
eve of the opening of the Session of 1894 news 
came from Biarritz, where the Premier had 
been making holiday, that failure of eyesight 
was imminent. Nevertheless, "hen he rose 
to speak, and throughout his speech, there 
was no sign of weakness either physical or 
mental. It was a period of grave political 


excitement. Lords and Commons had come 
into collision an a Pariah Councils Bill, the 
former having amended the measure to a 
degree that made it unrecognizable by its 
parents. The Radical section of the Minis- 
terialists were dying for a fight to the finish 
with the Lords, an event, as it turned 
out, postponed for seventeen years. There 
was profound anxiety to learn how the 
Premier would face this latest breach of the 
peace. Would he accept the slight in a 
Christian spirit , or would he give the welcome 
signal for war ? 

Hope rose below the Gangway when, 
having enumerated a list of alleged 
iniquities on the part of the Peers, cul- 
minating in the emas- 
culation oE a humble 
Parish Councils Bill, 
he said in those deep 
chest notes that be- 
tokened extreme emo- 
tion r M In our judg- 
ment this state of 
things cannot con- 
tiriTLie.^ Noble Lords 
looking down from 
their Gallery over the 
clock forthwith wit- 
nessed a stirring scene. 
Members below the 
Gangway sprang to 
their feet, waving 
their hats, a cheer 
roaring along the ser- 
ried ranks of the 
Ministerialists giving 
the Premier pause* 
There followed uni.i- 
climax when he con- 
cluded his speech by 
moving acqu ie. see ncc 
in the Lords* amend- 
ments, a surrender resented by the Radicals, 
who, headed fcy Mr. Labouchere, marched 
out, thirty-seven strong, to vote against their 
Leader on the last occasion he attempted to 

After the division Gladstone remained on 
the Treasury Bench, chatting earnestly with 
colleagues seated on his right and left, At 
the end of five minutes, abruptly rising, he, 
without sign of farewell, passed out behind 
the Speaker's Chair, never to return. The 
closing words of his last speech are worth 
quoting, not only for their personal interest, 
but for their historical bearing upon a long- 
standing feu<DnKJiwbl fa@<rhed a final climax 

test y^j|v^fTYW'^ " m y dut > r 





Die- Hards felt they were quite safe in 
M pinking Arthur. " Disillusion came with 
chilling influence when they read the report 
of his speech in the City. 

On Tuesday* November 7th, Mr. 
how Balfour's principal colleagues, 

bonar law having been made acquainted 
came to the with news of his intention 

leadership, to resign only one day before 
it was public property } hastily 
foregathered to consider the question of a 
successor. Two names naturally suggested 
themselves: Mr. Walter Long, represen- 
tative of the steadily -diminishing element of 
the English county gentleman who, in Peel's 
time, was the backbone of the Conservative 
Party ; and Mr. Austen Chamberlain, deputy 
of his father as the Leader of the Tariff 
Reform Party. It was resolved to submit 
these rival claims to the arbitrament of the 
ballot. Within twenty-four hours it became 
clear that in the peculiar circumstances of 
the case this accustomed expedient would be 
fraught with grave disadvantage to a Party 
already staggering under the blow of with- 
drawal from the Leadership of its strongest 

man. Calculations made by the 
Whips showed that whilst Mr* Long 
was pretty sure to be elected his 
majority would not be of the sub- 
stantial character necessary to estab- 
lish his authority on a sound basis. 
Moreover, the acerbity of a contested 
election would fur the rem bitter differ- 
ences whose existence since the Tariff 
Reform flag was run up to the mast- 
head had grievously weakened the 
Party. Then sprang forth the happy 
thought, eagerly welcomed, of 
scratching the favourites and making 
possible a walk-over for an outsider. 
Fortunately there was, in the person 
of Mr. Bonar Law, one at hand 
worthy of the high position. He 
was, accordingly, unanimously, even 
enthusiastically, elected, and peace 
with prospect of prosperity reigned 
in the tents of Israel. 

In a far-off way the episode 
recalls the familiar story of Cin- 
derella and the glass slipper, Mr. 
Bonar Law certainly did a good deal 
of obscure kitchen-work before he 
was unexpectedly preferred to the 
place of honour. 

Whilst in the quality 
of absolute unexpec- 
tedness Mr, Balfour's 
retirement from 
Leadership stands apart, it resembles 
the precedent, established by Disraeli and 
observed by Gladstone, that the House of 
Commons heard what proved to be his last 
official speech all unknowing that never 
again would he address them in the capacity 
of Leader. It is exceedingly probable that 
when on October 25th Mr. Half our > amid a 
rousing cheer from the great body of his 
followers desirous of disassociating themselves 
from " the microbes/' interposed in debit e he 
did not know r that il was his last utterance in 
the capacity of Leader. Herein he differed 
alike from Disraeli and Gladstone. When, 
on a night in August, 1876, Disraeli wound 
up debate on Turkish iniquities in Bulgaria, 
he knew very well, and the set ret was shared 
by his Cabinet colleagues, that onthe morrow 
he would be proclaimed E* ^ 

and might never more s" 
floor of the House he ha 
for full forty years. ^ 
denouncing the Lords' 
Parish Councils Bill, on 
hugged to his saddened fare 
that this QfiJflHtei^Forn 





By chance I was present in 
disraeli's. the House of Commons on 

the three historical occasions 
here referred to, and have clear recollections 
of the scenes and the chief actors, It was 
late at night when Disraeli rose, welcomed by 
a bored House by reason of the fact that 
his interposition preluded the close of a weary 
debate. He showed signs of feeling the 
prevalent influence, the speech lacking his 
accustomed flashes of irony and invective. 
Appropriately— whether designedly or not 
who shall say ? — the last word spoken in the 
House of Commons was " Empire," When he 
resumed his seat members began to disperse. 
In accordance with the common practice of 
Ministers Disraeli was 
accustomed to quit 
the House by the 
passage behind the 
Speaker's Chair. On 
this memorable night 
he, with ceremonious 
bow to the Speaker 
as he passed the end 
of the Table, sauntered 
down the floor, and, 
turning about as he 
crossed the bar, stood 
for a moment survey- 
ing the stage of some 
tumultuous, many 
triumphant, episodes. 
Then he passed out 
through the glass 
door, carrying his 
secret with him, The 
next time he visited 
the House he was 
seated in the Peers' 
Gallery with a gold- 
rimmed glass screwed 
into his eye, looking 

down with interest upon Mr. Joseph Gillis 
Biggar, who, at the moment, was defying 
the authority of the Chair from his place 
below the Gangway. 

Whilst Gladstone's last speech 
Gladstone's, in the House of Commons gave 

no sign of the coming event, 

before had indicated that 

I not be long deferred. On the 

^1894 news 

lier had 


t rose 

excitement. Lords and Commons had come 
into collision wn a Parish Councils Bill, the 
former having amended the measure to a 
degree that made it unrecognizable by its 
parents. The Radical section of the Minis- 
terialists were dying for a fight to the finish 
with the Lords, an event, as it turned 
out, postponed for seventeen years. There 
was profound anxiety to learn how the 
Premier would face this latest breach of the 
peace. Would he accept the slight in a 
Christian spirit, or would he give the welcome 
signal for war ? 

Hope rose below the Gangway when, 
having enumerated a list of alleged 
iniquities on the part of the Peers, cul- 
minating in the emas- 
culation of a humble 
Parish Councils Bill, 
he said in those deep 
chest notes that be- 
tokened extreme emo- 
tion : M In our judg- 
ment this state of 
things cannot con^ 
tinue." Noble Lords 
looking down from 
their Gallery over the 
clock forthwith wit- 
nessed a stirring scene. 
Members below the 
Gangway sprang to 
their feet, waving 
their hats, a cheer 
roaring along the ser- 
ried ranks of the 
Ministerialists giving 
the Premier pause* 
There followed anti- 
climax when he con- 
cluded his speech by 
moving acq u i e see n ce 
in the Lords' amend- 
ments, a surrender resented by the Radicals, 
who, headed %y Mr. Labouchere, marched 
out, thirty-seven strong, to vole against their 
Leader on the last occasion he attempted to 

After the division Gladstone remained on 
the Treasury Bench, chatting earnestly with 
colleagues seated on his right and left* At 
the end of five minutes, abruptly rising, he, 
without sign of farewell, passed out behind 
the Speaker's Chair , never lo return* The 
closing words of his last speech are worth 
quoting, not only for their personal interest, 
but for their historical bearing upon a long- 
standing feud v >W\?}\ reached a final climax 

last GflOTE&fTOPWrcteW 1 ' " my duty 





Die -Hards felt they were quite safe in 
44 pinking Arthur.'* Disillusion came with 
chilling influence when they read the report 
of his speech in the City. 

On Tuesday, November 7 th, Mr. 
how Balfour's principal colleagues, 

BONAR law having been made acquainted 
came to the with news- of his intention 

leadership, to resign only one day before 
it was public property, hastily 
foregathered to consider the question of a 
successor. Two names naturally suggested 
themselves: Mr. Walter Long, represen- 
tative of the steadily-diminishing element of 
the English county gentleman who, in Peel's 
time , was the backbone of the Conservative 
Party ; and Mr. Austen Chamberlain, deputy 
of his father as the Leader of the Tariff 
Reform Party. It was resolved to submit 
these rival claims to the arbitrament of the 
ballot. Within twenty-four hours it became 
clear that in the peculiar circumstances of 
the case this accustomed expedient w r ould be 
fraught with grave disadvantage to a Party 
already staggering under the blow of with- 
drawal from the Leadership of its strongest 

man. Calculations made by the 
Whips showed that whilst Mr. Long 
was pretty sure to be elected his 
majority w T ould not be of the sub- 
stantial character necessary to estab- 
lish his authority on a sound basis. 
Moreover the acerbity of a contested 
election would further embitter differ- 
ences whose existence since the Tariff 
Reform flag was run up to the mast- 
head had grievously weakened the 
Party; Then sprang forth the happy 
thought, eagerly welcomed, of 
scratching the favourites and making 
possible a walk-over for an outsider. 
Fortunately there was, in the person 
of Mr. Bonar Law, one at hand 
worthy of the high position. He 
was, accordingly, unanimously, even 
enthusiastically, elected, and peace 
with prospect of prosperity reigned 
in the tents of Israch 

In a far-off way the episode 
recalls the familiar story of Cin- 
derella and the glass slipper. Mr, 
Bonar Law certainly did a good deal 
of obscure kitchen-work before he 
was unexpectedly preferred to the 
place of honour. 

Whilst in the quality 
earlier of absolute unexpec- 
exits : tedness Mr. Balfour's 
retirement from 
Leadership stands apart, it resembles 
the precedent, established by Disraeli and 
observed by Gladstone, that the House of 
Commons heard what proved to be his last 
official speech all unknowing that never 
again would he address them in the capacity 
of Leader. It is exceedingly probable that 
when on October 25th Mr. Balfour, amid a 
rousing cheer from the great body of his 
followers desirous of disassociating themselves 
from M the microbes; f interposed in debit e he 
did not know that it was his last utterance in 
the capacity of Leader. Herein he differed 
alike from Disraeli and Gladstone, When, 
on a night in August, 1876, Disraeli wound 
up debate on Turkish iniquities in Bulgaria, 
he knew very well, and the secret was shared 
by his Cabinet colleagues, that on the morrow 
he would be proclaimed Earl of Beacons field, 
and might never more stroll up or down the 
floor of the House he had filled with his fame 
for full forty years. Similarly, Gladstone, 
denouncing the Lords' amendments to the 
Parish Councils Rill, on March 1st, 1894, 
hugged to his reddened breast the knowledge 



By chance I was present in 
uisfakm's. the House of Commons on 

the three historical occasions 
here referred to, and have clear recollections 
of the scenes and the chief actors- It was 
late at night when Disraeli rose, welcomed by 
a bored House by reason of the fact that 
his interposition preluded the close of a weary 
debate- He showed signs of feeling the 
prevalent influence, the speech lacking his 
accustomed flashes of irony and invecti%'e. 
Appropriately — whether designedly or not 
who shall say ? — the last word spoken in the 
House of Commons was " Empire." When he 
resumed his seat members began to disperse. 
In accordance with the common practice of 
Ministers Disraeli was 
accustomed to quit 
the House by the 
passage behind the 
Speaker's Chair- On 
this memorable night 
he, with ceremonious 
bow to the Speaker 
as he passed the end 
of the Table .sauntered 
down the floor, and, 
turning about as he 
crossed the bar, stood 
for a moment survey- 
ing the stage of some 
tumultuous, many 
triumphant, episodes 
Then he passed out 
through the glass 
door, carrying his 
secret with him, The 
next time he visited 
the House he was 
seated in the Peers* 
Gallery with a gold* 
rimmed glass screwed 
into his eye, looking 
down with interest upon Mr, Joseph Gillis 
Biggar, who, at the moment 9 was defying 
the authority of the Chair from his place 
below the Gangway, 

Whilst Gladstone's last speech 
Gladstone's, in the House of Commons gave 

no sign of the coming event, 
shadows stretched before had indicated that 
retirement would not be long deferred. On the 
eve of the opening of the Session of 1894 news 
came from Biarritz, where the Premier had 
been making holiday, that failure of eyesight 
was imminent. Nevertheless, iv hen he rose 
to speak j and throughout his speech , there 
was no sign of weakness either physical or 
mental. It was a period of grave political 

L. - 

excitement. Lords and Commons had come 
into collision ©n a Parish Councils Bill, the 
former having amended the measure to a 
degree that made it unrecognizable by its 
parents. The Radical section of the Minis- 
terialists were dying for a fight to the finish 
with the Lords, an event, as it turned 
out , postponed for seventeen years. There 
was profound anxiety to learn how the 
Premier would face this latest breach of the 
peace. Would he accept the slight in a 
Christian spirit, or would he give the welcome 
signal for w r ar ? 

Hope rose below the Gangway when, 
having enumerated a list of alleged 
iniquities on the part of the Peers, cul- 
minating in the emas- 
culation of a humble 
Parish Councils Bill, 
he said in those deep 
chest notes that be- 
tokened extreme emo- 
tion : "In our judg- 
ment this state of 
things cannot con- 
tinue/' Noble Lords 
looking down from 
their Gallery over the 
clock forthwith wit- 
nessed a stirring scene. 
Members below the 
Gangway sprang to 
their feet, waving 
their hats, a cheer 
roaring along the ser- 
ried ranks of the 
M in i s t e rialis ts gi vi ng 
the Premier pause, 
There followed anti- 
climax when he con- 
cluded his speech by 
mo ving acq u i escence 
in the Lords' amend- 
ments f a surrender resented by the Radicals, 
who, headed by Mr, Labour here, marched 
out, thirty-seven strong, to vote against their 
Leader on the last occasion he attempted to 

After the division Gladstone remained on 
the Treasury Bench, chatting earnestly with 
colleagues seated on hts right and left. At 
the end of five minutes, abruptly rising, he, 
without sign of farewell, passed out behind 
the Speaker's Chair, never to return. The 
closing words of his last sj>eech are worth 
quoting, not only for their personal in teres t, 
but for their historical bearing upon a long- 
standing feud whicfrl fpafhed a final climax 

last J^tffiBTYW'tifeHraft " my duly 




terminates with calling the attention of the 
House to the fact, which it is really impossible 
to set aside, that in considering these amend- 
ments j limited as their scope may seem to 
some to be, we are considering a part, an 
essential and inseparable part, of a question 
enormously large, a question that has become 
profoundly acute, a question that will demand 
a settlement, and 
must at an early 
date receive that 
settlement from the 
highest authority." 

Mr. Bal- 

mr. bal- four's last 

four's speech in 

last the capa- 


Leader of 
the House of Com- 
mons was delivered on 
the second day of the 
Autumn Session. He 
followed the Prime 
Minister, who had 
moved a Resolution 
appropriating the 
whole time of the 
House for public 
business. It was of 
the character of 
general and particular 
criticism of the policy 
and acts of the 
Government It bore 
no trace of weariness, 
st ill less intention to 
retire from the first 
fighting line* On the 
contrary, it was ex- 
ceptionally conten- 
tious, more than ordi- 
narily stinging in its 
personal attack on the 
Premier. In a con- 
cluding sentence that 
brought his followers 
to a high pitch" of 
excitement j he said : 
"This is one of the 
worst days for a free 
Assembly, It is one 
of those anniversaries 
upon which people 
will look back and will 
say, ( On this day a 
1< ad i cal G o v era m en t 
finally decided, having 
destroyed the House 

3> /*7\^~ lS 


of Lords in the first part of the Session , to 
destroy the liberties of the House of Com- 
mons in the second.' " 

This speech did not mark Mr. Balfour's 
last appearance in the seat of the* Leader. 
In the brief interval before his retirement 
was announced he looked in once or twice at 
the question hour, but did not remain for 

Committee on the In- 
.^_- _,,_, surance Bill, a mea- 

sure whose multitu- 
dinous details and 
intricacies of account 
repelled him. Thus 
there was not in his 
case, as in that of 
Disraeli and Glad- 
stone, a particular 
occasion when he left 
the House conscious 
that he would never 
return to resume his 

A Parlia- 
AS a mentarian 
leader, who al- 
ways com- 
manded the attention, 
frequently compelled 
the conviction, of the 
House of Commons , 
Mr. Balfour was in his 
own way not less 
supreme than Disraeli 
or Gladstone, His 
comparative failure as 
a Party Leader was 
shared with the latter, 
oddly enough on the 
same lines. Intellec- 
tually impatient of 
mediocrity, he was 
not able to bring him- 
self to pay it court. 
The most courteous 
man in social life, 
Gladstone, on the rare 
occasions when he 
crossed the Lobby or 
walked along the cor- 
ridors of the 
of Commons, looked 
neither to the right 
hand nor to the left, 
ignoring the existence 
of loval followers who 
would have been 
bound to him afresh 
ie given them 


Or i gina l ff6 n 

— — ongjna tfb r haH Kl 



a" friendly word or even recognized them 
by a smiling nod. Mr. Balfour uncon- 
sciously followed on these lines of conduct, 
dangerous, if not fatal, to a Party Leader. 
For some years back there have been mur- 
murs from the Opposition benches complain- 
ing of their Leader's aloofness. Mr. Bonar 
Law, in his first public speech after assuming 
the Leadership, undesignedly bore striking 
testimony to this state of things. He 
remarked that before he was offered an 
Under - Secretaryship, the first, for many 
years the sole, recognition of his capacity, he 
had spoken only twice with Mr. Balfour. 

It is probable that during his long term of 
Leadership, whether in office or in Opposition, 
there were hundreds of Gladstone's faithful 
followers who had never had the opportunity 
of speaking to him in private. A well-known 
result of this undesigned, unconscious stand- 
offishness was the defection of Joseph Cowen, 
at one time a pillar of Liberal strength in the 
North. During the electoral campaign pre- 
ceding the introduction of the Irish Land Bill 
and the Bill disestablishing the Church in 
Ireland, Gladstone, carrying the fiery cross 
through Northumberland, was the honoured 
guest of Cowen's father. The ardent youth 
had reverentially sat at the feet of the great 
man eloquent, who sometimes turned aside to 
talk to him. When, six years later, Cowen 
was triumphantly returned to Parliament, he 
naturally thought his father's guest would 
at least welcome him with shake of hands. 
One day Gladstone passed him in the 
Division Lobby without sign of recognition — 
a circumstance which, rankling in a sensitive 
breast, paved the way for a defection that 
did much to undermine Liberalism in the 
North of England, where Cowen's personality 
was magnetic, his newspaper almost omni- 

Disraeli's action in analogous 
Disraeli's circumstances is illustrated by 
downiness, a story with which, I fancy, I 

have earlier made the public 
familiar. On the eve of the division on the 
Imperial Titles Bill, which Disraeli was 
anxious to carry with the largest possible 
majority, he laid himself out with patient 
assiduity to catch stray votes. There was 
at the time an Irish member named Dr. 
O'Leary, who rather fancied himself as a 
statesman. For the point of the story it is 
necessary to mention that in respect of inches 
he was about as tall as Zaccheus, or as the 
author of V Lalla Rookh," known to social 
contemporaries as " Tom Little." Over- 
taking him in the Lobby, Disraeli placed his 

hand with friendly pressure on the little 
gentleman's shoulder and said, " My dear 
Dr. O'Leary, you know you gave me quite a 
shock. When, looking up just now, I saw 
you walking ahead, I for a moment thought 
to myself, it is my old friend Tom Moore 
come back again." 

If the Division List on the Imperial Titles 
Bill be consulted, Dr. O'Leary's name will 
be found in the majority that triumphantly 
added it to the Statute Book. 

Lord Rowton once told me that at this 
epoch, indeed till the termination of his 
Premiership, his Chief formed the habit of 
entering the Division Lobby with the first 
flight of members. He took up a position 
midway its length, narrowly watching the 
throng as it pressed forward. If his eye 
lighted on one who had recently shown signs 
of wavering in loyalty he beckoned to him to 
approach, had a little friendly talk, and, if 
the case made it worth while, put his hand 
within his arm and walked with him to the 
wicket that gave exit from the Lobby. He 
did the same, perhaps with less empressement, 
in cases where one of the rank and file of his 
party had made anything in the way of a 
-hit in debate. 

These little arts and artifices 
mr. never seemed to occur to Mr. 

balfour's Balfour. Certainly he never 

aloofness, practised them. Abstention 
was due to the same superb 
indifference to the opinion of his fellow- 
men which makes it partially true that he 
" never reads the papers." This tempera- 
ment has its compensation, since he does not 
give himself the trouble to have personal 
animosities. I know of only two men of 
whom he privily spoke with petulant dislike. 
In their time they both served under Glad- 
stone, and nightly through the Session Mr. 
Balfour suffered the annoyance of their sitting 
immediately opposite, parted only by the 
breadth of the Table. Chatting one dull 
night with a colleague, the latter said, " Did 
you ever notice how strangely the contour 
of B.'s face resembles the shape of a horse's 
head ? " 

" He may look like a horse," said Mr. 

Balfour, snappishly, " but he is only an ass." 

One material advantage Mr. 

private Bonar Law will find attendant 
rooms in the upon his promotion to the 

commons. Leadership is sole possession 

of a convenient, commodious, 

comfortably-furnished private room. Time 

was, within the rrcemorv of a few yet with us 

in Parliamentp^^i^^s were the 

i 3 6 


exclusive property of the Leader of the House 
and the Leader of the Opposition, The kte 
Mr. Childers told me that when he first became 
a Minister he found that no private room 
within the precincts of the House was set 
aside for his occupation. Bound to be in 
attendance throughout the sitting of the 
House, as was the Ministerial custom in that 
far-off time, he used to take possession of one 
of the small writing-tables in the corridor 
into which the side galleries of the House 
open, and do his work 
there. A consequence 
was that when the 
division bell rang he 
had to leave his cor- 
respondence, or what- 
ever clerical work he 
may chance to have 
been engaged upon, 
open on the table, so 
that he who ran 
might read. 

It was during the 
term of office at the 
Board of Works of 
Mr. Plunket, now 
Lord Rathmore, that 
the privilege of pri- 
vate rooms was ex- 
tended to Under- 
Secretaries. Com- 
pared with the luxuri- 
ous apartments of the 
Leader of the House, 
the Leader of the 
Opposition, and the 
Chant ellor of the 
Exchequer, other pri- 
vate rooms flanking 
the corridor behind 
the Speaker's Chair, 
or delved out of sub- 
terranean passages, 
are scanty in propor- 
tion: Though not so 
deep as a well, nor 
much wider than a 
church door, like 
Meruit io's wound 

" they will serve/ 1 affording pleasing oppor- 
tunity of retreat from the House under 
charitable supposition that the occupant 
is engaged in continuance of business 
commenced during daytime in the office 
of his Department. One not absolutely 
desirable result of this change in condition 
is seen in the habitually empty state of the 
Treasury Bench throughout a sitting. The 
only occupants are the Minister whose 
Department is directly concerned in the busi- 
ness of the Houses 
with the assistance of 
one, at most two, col- 
leagues. The rest of 
His Majesty's Mini- 
sters are hard at 
work in the cosy 
seclusion of then- 
private rooms. 

If the ghost of 
Disraeli ever revisits 
the glimpses of the 
gas - lit roof under 
which he made history 
and his own fame, it 
would be perturbed at 
this spectacle. Whilst 
Leader of the House 
Disraeli was, with 
brief interval for din- 
ner, to be found on 
the Treasury Bench 
from the time the 
Speaker took the Chair 
till the cry " Who goes 
home ? ,J resounded 
through the Lobby, 
Also he expected his 
colleagues to follow 
his example, a pre- 
cedent Gladstone 
strictly observed, 
at least up to the 
close of his third 

But, as I have said, 
in those days there 
were no private rooms 
for Ministers. 


Dunns; whtjse term of oflke th** privilege of private romna was 

uau-ikW lo UDoet 'Secretaries. 

by Google 

Original from 

The Prince and Betty. 


Illustrated ty Dudley Hardy, R,L 



ETTY SILVER came out of 
the house and began to walk 
slowly across the terrace to 
where Elsa Keith sat with 
Martin Rossi ter in the shade 
of the big sycamore. Elsa 
and Martin had become en- 
gaged some few days before, 

" What's troubling Betty, I wonder ? " said 
Elsa. " She looks worried. 1 * 
Martin turned his head. 
" Is that your friend, Miss Silver ? When 
did she arrive ? " 

11 Last night. She's here for a month. 
What's the matter, Betty ? This is Martin. 
What were you scowling at so ferociously 
Betty ? " 

" Oh, Elsa, I'm miserable ! I shall have 
to leave this heavenly place. See what has 

She held out some flimsy sheets of paper. 
*' A telegram ! w said Elsa. " That's not 
all one telegram, surely ? u 

(I It's from my stepfather. Read it out, 
Elsa. I want Mr, Rossiter to hear it. He 
may be able to tell me where Mervo is," 

Elsa, who had been skimming the docu- 
ment with raised eyebrows, now read it out 
in its spacious entirety : — 

On receipt of this come instantly Mervo without 
moment delay. Vital importance* Presence urgently 
required* Come wherever you are. Cancel engage merits* 
Urgent necessity. Have advised bank allow you draw 
any money you need expenses* Don't fail catch first 
train London if you're in the country* I don't know 
where you are, but wherever you are you can catch 

Vo|* *lui-Hh 




Original from 



boat-train to Dover to-morrow night. No taking root 
in London and spending a week shopping. Night boat 
Dover - Calais. Arrive Paris Wednesday morning. 
Dine Paris. Catch train-de-luxe nine-fifteen Wednes- 
day night for Marseilles. Have engaged sleeping 
coupe. Now, mind — Wednesday night. No hanging 
round Paris shops — you can do all that later on. 
Just now I want you to get here quick. Arrive 
Mirseilles Thursday morning. Boat Mervo Thursday 
ni^ht. Will meet you Mervo. Now, do you follow 
all that ? Because, if not, wire at once and say 
which part of journey you don't understand. Now 
mind special points to be remembered — Firstly, come 
instantly ; secondly, no hanging round London-Paris 
shops. See ? — Scobell. 

" Well I " said Elsa, breathless. 

Martin was re-reading the message. 

" This isn't a mere invitation," he said. 
"There's no come-along-you'll-like-this-place- 
it's-fine about it. He seems to look on 
your company more as a necessity than 
a luxury." 

" That's what makes it so strange. We 
have hardly met for years. And I don't know 
where he is ! " 

" Well/' said Martin, " if you get to the 
place by taking a boat from Marseilles, it 
can't be far from the French coast. I should 
say that Mervo was an island in the Mediter- 
ranean. Isn't there an Encyclopaedia in 
the library, Elsa ? I'll go and fetch it." 

As he crossed the terrace, Elsa turned 
quickly to Betty. 

" Well ? " she said. 

Betty smiled at her. 

" He's a dear. Are you very happy, 
Elsa ? " 

Elsa closed her eyes. 

" It's like eating strawberries and cream 
in a new dress by moonlight on a summer 
night, while somebody plays the violin far 
away in the distance, so that you can just 
hear it," she said. 

Betty was clenching her hands and breath- 
ing quickly. 

" And it's like " 

" Elsa, don't ! I can't bear it ! " 

" Betty ! What's the matter ? " 

Betty smiled again, but painfully. 

" It's stupid of me. I'm just jealous, 
that's all. I haven't got a Martin, you see. 
You have." 

" Well, there are plenty who would like to 
be your Martin." 

Betty's face grew cold. 

" There are plenty who wpuld like to be 
Benjamin Scobell's son-in-law," she said. 

" Betty ! " Elsa's voice was serious. 
"Betty! Who are they?" 

" The only one you know is Lord Arthur 
Hayling. You remember him ? He was 

the last. There were four others before him. 
And not one of them cared the slightest bit 
about me." 

" But, Betty, dear, that's just what I mean. 
Why should you say that ? How can you 
know ? " 

" How do I know ? Well, I do know. 
Instinct, I suppose. I can't think of a single 
man in the world — except your Martin, of 
course — who wouldn't do anything for 
money." She stopped. " Well, yes, one." 

Elsa leaned forward eagerly. 

" Who, Betty ? What's his name ? " 

Betty hesitated. 

" Well, if I am in the witness-box — Maude, 
John Maude. I only met him two or three 
times, and I haven't seen him for years, and I 
don't suppose I shall ever see him again." 

" But how do you know, then ? What 
makes you think that he ? " 

" Instinct, again, I suppose. I do know." 

" And you've never met him since ? " 

Betty shook her head. 

At the farther end of the terrace Martin 
Rossi ter appeared, carrying a large volume. 

He sat down and opened the book. 

" Well, it's an island in the Mediterranean, 
as I said. It's the smallest independent 
State in the world ; smaller than Monaco, 
even. Here are some facts. Its population 
when this Encyclopaedia was printed — there 
may be more now — was eleven thousand and 
sixteen. It was ruled over up to 1886 by a 
Prince. But in that year the populace 
appear to have sacked their Prince, and the 
place is now a Republic." 

" But what can my stepfather be doing 
there ? I last heard of him in America. 
Well, I suppose I shall have to go." 

" I suppose you will," said Elsa, mourn- 
fully. " But, oh, Betty, what a shame ! " 



" By George ! " cried Mr. Benjamin Scobell. 
" Hi, Marion ! " 

He wheeled round from the window and 
transferred his gaze from the view to his 
sister Marion. 

Mervo was looking its best under the hot 
morning sun. Mr. Scobell's villa stood near 
the summit of the only hill the island pos- 
sessed, and from the window of the morning- 
room, where he had just finished breakfast, 
he had an uninterrupted view of valley, 
town, and harbour — a two-mile riot of green, 
gold, and white, and beyond the white the 
blue satin of the Mediterranean. 

ipMftmm/r * nice ■" t0 



By chance I was present in 
Disraeli's, the House of Commons on 

the three historical occasions 
here referred to, and have clear recollections 
of the scenes and the chief actors. It was 
late at night when Disraeli rose, welcomed by 
a bored House by reason of the fact that 
his interposition preluded the close of a weary 
debate. He showed signs of feeling the 
prevalent influence^ the speech lacking his 
accustomed flashes of irony and invective. 
Appropriately— whether designedly or not 
who shall say ?— the last word spoken in the 
House of Commons was " Empire, " When he 
resumed his seat members began to disperse. 
In accordance with the common practice of 
Ministers Disraeli was 
accustomed to quit 
the House by the 
passage behind the 
Speaker's Chair. On 
this memorable night 
he j with ceremonious 
bow to the Speaker 
as he passed the end 
of the Table, sauntered 
down the floor $ and, 
turning about as he 
crossed the bar, stood 
for a moment survey- 
ing the stage of some 
tumultuous j many 
triumphant, episodes. 
Then he passed out 
through the glass 
door, carrying his 
secret with him. The 
next time he visited 
the House he was 
seated in the Peers' 
Gallery with a gold- 
rimmed glass screwed 
into his eve, looking 

down with interest upon Mr, Joseph Gillis 
Biggar^ who, at the moment, was defying 
the authority of the Chair from his place 
below the Gangway, 

Whilst Gladstone's last speech 
Gladstone's, in the House of Commons gave 

no sign of the coming event, 
shadows stretched before had indicated that 
retirement would not belong deferred. On the 
eve of the opening of the Session of 1894 news 
came from Biarritz, where the Premier had 
been making holiday, that failure of eyesight 
was imminent. Nevertheless , ".'hen he rose 
to speak f and throughout his speech, there 
was no sign of weakness either physical or 
mental. It was a period of grave political 


excitement. Lords and Commons had come 
into collision an a Parish Councils Bill, the 
former having amended the measure to a 
degree that made it unrecognizable by its 
parents. The Radical section of the Minis- 
terialists were dying for a fight to the finish 
with the Lords, an event, as it turned 
out, postponed for seventeen years, 'there 
was profound anxiety to learn how the 
Premier would face this latest breach of the 
peace. Would he accept the slight in a 
Christian spirit, or would he give the welcome 
signal for war ? 

Hope rose below the Gangway when, 
having enumerated a list of alleged 
iniquities on the part of the Pcers^ cul- 
minating in the emas- 
culation of a humble 
Parish Councils Bill, 
he said in those deep 
chest notes that be- 
tokened extreme emo- 
tion : '* In our judg- 
ment this state of 
things cannot con- 
tinue-" Noble Lords 
looking down from 
their Gallery over the 
clock forthwith wit- 
nessed a stirring scene. 
Members below the 
Gangway sprang to 
their feet, waving 
their hats, a cheer 
roaring along the ser- 
ried ranks of the 
Ministerialists giving 
the Premier pause. 
There followed anti- 
climax when he con- 
cluded his speech by 
m v i n g acquiescence 
in the Lords' amend- 
ments, a surrender resented by the Radicals, 
whoj headed fey Mr, Lahouchere, marched 
out, thirty-seven strong, to vote against their 
Leader on the last occasion he attempted to 

After the division Gladstone remained on 
the Treasury Bench , chatting earnestly with 
colleagues seated on his right and left. At 
the end of five minutes, abruptly rising, he, 
without sign of farewell, passed out behind 
the Speaker's Chair, never to return. The 
closing words of his last speech are worth 
quoting, not only for their personal interest, 
but for their historical bearing upon a long- 
standing feudJrrefofaiil ffl&fhed a final climax 

last J'w^m-^ftm^ " m y duty 




became intelligible to the President. He 
said he had heard of M. Blanc. 

Mr. Scobell lit a cigar. 

" Well, I'm in that line. I'm going to 
make this island hum just like old Blonk 
made Monte Carlo. I've been reading up 
all about Blonk, and I know just what he did 
and how he did it. Monte Carlo was just 
such another dead-and-alive little place as 
this is before he came. The Government was 
down to its last threepenny-bit and wonder- 
ing where the dickens its next Sunday dinner 
was coming from, when along comes Blonk, 
tucks up his shirt-sleeves, and starts the 
tables. And after that the place never looked 
back. You and your fellows have got to call 
a meeting and pass a vote to give me a gam- 
bling concession here, like what they gave 
him. Scobell's my name. Tell him, Crump/' 

Mr. Crump obliged once more. A gleam 
of intelligence came into the President's dull 

" The idea seems to strike him, sir," said 
Mr. Crump. 

" It ought to, if he's got the imagination 
of a limpet/' replied Mr. Scobell. " Look 
here," he said ; " I've thought this thing out. 
There's lots of room for another Monte Carlo. 
Monte's a good little place, but it's not per- 
fect by a long way. Blonk's offer to the 
Prince of Monaco was five hundred thousand 
francs a year — that's about twenty thousand 
pounds in real money — and half the profits 
made by the Casino. That's my offer, too. 
See how he likes that, Crump." 

Mr. Crump investigated. 

" He says he accepts gladly, on behalf of 
the Republic, sir," he announced. 

M. d'Orby confirmed the statement by 
rising, dodging the cigar, and kissing Mr. 
Scobell on both cheeks. 

" Stop it ! " said the financier, austerely, 
breaking out of the clinch. " We'll take the 
Apache dance as read. Good-bye, o' man. 
Glad it's settled. Now I can get to work." 

He did. Workmen poured into Mervo, 
and in a very short time, dominating the 
town and reducing to insignificance the 
palace of the late Prince, once a passably 
imposing mansion, there rose beside the har- 
bour a mammoth Casino of shining stone. 

It was a colossal venture, but it suffered 
from the defect from which most big things 
suffer : it moved slowly. At present it was 
being conducted at a loss. Ideas for pro- 
moting the prosperity of his nurseling came 
to Mr. Scobell at all hours — at meals, in the 
night watches, when he was shaving, walking, 
washing, reading, brushing his hair, 

And now one had come to him as he stood 
looking at the view from the window of his 

"By George!" he said. "Marion, I've 
got an idea ! " 

Miss Scobell, deep in her paper, paid no 
attention. She had a detached mind. 

" Marion ! " cried Mr. Scobell. " I've got 
it. I've found out what's the matter with 
this place. I see why the Casino hasn't 
got moving properly. It's this Republic. 
What's the use of a Republic in a place like 
this ? Who ever heard of this Republic 
doing anything except e«..; and sleep ? They 
used to have a Prince here in 'eighty-some- 
thing. Well, I'm going to have him back 

Miss Scobell looked up from her paper, 
which she had been reading with absorbed 
interest throughout this harangue. 

" You can't, dear. He's dead," said she. 

" I know he's dead. You can't stump me 
on the history of this place. I've been read- 
ing it up. He died in '91. But before he 
died he married an English girl, named 
Westley, and there's a son, who's in England 
now, living with his uncle. It's the son I'm 
going to send for. I got it all from General 

Miss Scobell turned to her paper again. 

" Very well, dear," she said. " Just as you 
please. I'm sure you know best." 

" I'll go and find old Poineau at once," 
said the financier. " He knows just where 
his nibs is." 



About the time of Mr. Scobell's visit to 
General Poineau, John, Prince of Mervo, 
ignorant of the greatness so soon to be thrust 
upon him, was strolling thoughtfully along 
Bishopsgate Street. 

He was a big young man, tall and large of 
limb. His face wore an expression of invin- 
cible good-humour. 

As he passed along the street he looked a 
little anxious. 

At the entrance to a large office-building 
he paused, and seemed to hesitate. Then, 
mounting to the second floor, he went down 
the passage, and pushed open a door on which 
was inscribed the legend, " Westley, Martin, 
and Co." 

A girl, walking across the office with her 
hands full of papers, stopped in astonishment. 

" Why, John Maude ! " she cried. 

" Halloa, Delia ! " he said. 

Delia Morrison w%$ &11 American girl, from 



New York. She was Mr. Westley's secretary, 
and she and John had always been good 
friends. John, indeed, was generally popular 
with his fellow-employes. 

" Say, where have you been ? " said Delia. 
" The old man's been as mad as a hornet 
since he found you'd quit without leave." 

" Delia," said John, " owing to your unfor- 
tunate upbringing you aren't a cricket enthu- 
siast ; but suppose you were, and suppose 
you got up one day and found it was a per- 
fectly ripping morning, and remembered that 
it was the first day of a Test Match, and looked 
at your letters, and saw that someone had 
offered you a seat in the pavilion, what would 
you have done ? I could no more have 
refused — oh, well, I suppose I'd better tackle 
my uncle now. It's got to be done." 

John's relations with his uncle were not 

On Mr. Westley's side there was something 
to be said in extenuation of his attitude. 
John reminded him of his father, and he had 
hated the late Prince of Mervo with a cold 
hatred that had for a time been the ruling 
passion of his life. He had loved his sister, 
and her married life had been one long torture 
to him, a torture rendered keener by the fact 
that he was powerless to protect either her 
happiness or her money. At last an auto- 
mobile accident put an end to his Highness's 
hectic career, and the Princess had returned 
to her brother's home, where, a year later, she 
died, leaving him in charge of her infant son. 

Mr. Westley's desire from the first had been 
to eliminate, as far as possible, all memory of 
the late Prince. He gave John his sister's 
name, Maude, and brought him up as an 
Englishman, in total ignorance of his father's 

He disliked John intensely. He fed him, 
clothed him, sent him to Cambridge, and gave 
him a home and a place in his office ; but he 
never for a moment relaxed his bleakness of 
front towards him. 

As John approached the inner office the 
door flew open, disclosing Mr. Westley him- 
self, a tall, thin man. 

" Ah," said Mr. Westley, " come in here. 
I want to speak to you. 

When the door closed Mr. Westley leaned 
back in his chair. "You were at the Test 
Match yesterday ?" he said. 

The unexpectedness of the question startled 
John into a sharp laugh. 

" Yes," he said, recovering himself. 

" Without leave." 

u It didn't seem worth while asking for 

" You mean that you relied so implicitly 
on our relationship to save you from the 
consequences ? " 

" No ; I meant " 

" Well, we need not try to discover what 
you may have meant. What claim do you 
put forward for special consideration ? Why 
should I treat you differently from any other 
member of the staff ? " 

John had a feeling that the interview was 
being taken at too rapid a pace. He felt 

" I don't want you to treat me differently," 
he said. 

" I think we understand each other," said 
Mr. Westley. " I need not detain you. You 
may return to the Test Match without further 
delay. As you go out, ask the cashier to give 
you your salary to the end of the month. 

It was characteristic of John — a trait 
inherited from a long line of ancestors whose 
views on finance had always been delightfully 
airy and casual — that it was only at very 
occasional intervals that the thought would 
come to him that one cannot spend one's 
days at the Oval and one's nights in an expen- 
sive hotel indefinitely on a capital of forty 
pounds. But he was not a Prince of Mervo 
for nothing ; and he shirked the unpleasant 
problem of how he was to go on living after 
his money was gone as thoroughly and 
effectively as even his father, the amiable 
Prince Charles, could have done. Life was 
too pleasant for such morbid meditations. 

A certain tendency to loneliness was the 
only real drawback to his holiday. It was 
not until the fifth day that he met a friend, 
his old acquaintance, Delia Morrison. 

They met in the Savoy Hotel. She was so 
changed outwardly that, when he first caught 
sight of her, he did not recognize her. 

She caught his eye, stared, then smiled a 
huge smile of delighted surprise. 

" This is splendid," said John. " I was 
just wondering if I should ever meet anybody 
I knew again. What are you doing here, 
Delia ? You look as if you had come into a 

" I have come into a fortune. At least, pa 
did. My head's still buzzing. Pa and ma 
arrived from New York in the Lusitania the 
day after you were fired. They never cabled 
or anything. The first I knew of it was when 
they walked into the office and told me to get 
ready to quit, because I was an heiress. You 
never met ma, but, believe me, before this 
happened you'd have said tr.&t she hadn't ^ 



drop of ambition in her. She was just a good 
fellow, contented to stay at home and look 
after things. Whereas pa and I were always 
saying if we were rich we'd do this and that. 
That was before I came over here. Well, 
along comes a lawyer's letter one day for pa, 
staying that my Uncle Jim, somehow or other, 
had made more than a million out West, and 
he'd left it all to pa. And now ma, who used 
to be so quiet, has suddenly begun to show a 
flash of speed that would make' you wonder 
why something don't catch fire. She says 
we're going into society, all in among all the 
dukes and earls and lord-high-main-squeezes. 
We're going for a trip to Paris first. After- 
wards Fm to be presented at Court. Have 
you seen an English fellow hanging around 
here, looking as if he'd bought the hotel and 
didn't think much of it ? He's a lord. 
Hayling's his name. Lord Arthur Hayling. 
Well, ma's got acquainted and roped him 
in to be our barker. His job's to stand in 
front of us with a megaphone and holler to 
Duke Percy and Lady Mabel to come in and 
see us. We're going to take a fine big house 
somewhere, and Kid Hayling's promised to 
see that folks are sociable. Halloa, there's 
ma and his lordship, looking for me ! Good- 
bye ! Pleasant dreams." 
And the heiress rustled off. 

That night Mr. Crump of Mervo arrived. 
He found John smoking in the hotel lobby, 
and wasted no time on preliminaries. " Mr. 
Maude ? " he said. " I am Mr. Benjamin 
Scobell's private secretary." 

" Yes ? " said John. " Pretty snug job ? " 

The other seemed to miss something in his 

** You have heard of Mr. Scobell ? " he 

" Not to my knowledge," said John. 

Mr. Crump was a young man of extra- 
ordinary gravity of countenance. He eyed 
John intently through a pair of gold-rimmed 

" I have been instructed," he said, solemnly, 
" to inform your Highness that the Republic 
of Mervo has been dissolved, and that 
your subjects offer you the throne of your 

John leaned back in his chair and looked 
at him in dumb amazement. 

His attitude appeared to astound Mr. 

" Don't you know ? " he said. " Your 
father " 

John became suddenly interested. 
— — " If you've got anything to tell me about 

my father, go ahead. You'll be the only man 
I've ever met who has said a word about him* 
Who the deuce was he ? " 

Mr. Crump's face cleared. 

" I understand. I had not expected thisg 
You have been kept in ignorance. Your 
father, Mr. Maude, was the late Prince 
Charles of Mervo." 

John dropped his cigar in a shower of grey 
ash on to his trousers. 

" If your Highness would glance at these 

documents This is a copy of the 

register of the church in which your mother 
and father were married." 

" But where the deuce is Mervo ? I never 
heard of the place." 

" It is an island principality in the Mediter- 
ranean, your High " 

4< For goodness 1 sake, old man, don't keep 
calling me ' your Highness.' It may be fun 
to you, but it makes me feel a perfect ass. 
Let me get into the thing gradually." 

Mr. Crump felt in his pocket. 

" Mr. Scobell," he said, producing a roll of 
bank-notes, " entrusted me with money to 
defray any expenses." 

11 That's awfully good of him," said John. 
" It strikes me, old man, that I am not abso- 
lutely up-to-date as regards the internal 
affairs of this important little kingdom of 
mine. How would it be if you were to tell 
me one or two facts ? Start at the beginning 
and go right on." 

When Mr. Crump had finished a condensed 
history of Mervo and Mervian politics, John 
smoked in silence fof some minutes. 

44 Well, well," he said, " these are stirring 
times. When do we start for the old home- 
stead ? " 

14 Mr. Scobell was exceedingly anxious that 
we should start immediately." 



Owing to collaboration between Fate and 
Mr. Scobell, John's State entry into Mervo 
was an interesting blend between a pageant 
and a music-hall sketch. The pageant idea 
was Mr. Scobell's. The Palace Guard; forty 
strong, lined the quay. Besides these, there 
were four officers, a band, and sixteen mounted 
carbineers. The rest of the army was dotted 
along the streets. In addition to the military, 
there was a gathering of a hundred and fifty 
civilians, mainly drawn from fishing circles. 
They cheered vigorously as a young man, 
carrying a portmanteau, was seen to step on 
to the gangway and make for the shore. 
General Pomeau, a white-haired warrior with 





a fierce moustache, strode forward and saluted. 
The Palace Guards presented arms. The 
band struck up the Mervian National Anthem. 
General Poineau, lowering his hand, put on 

a pair of pince-nez and began to unroll an 
address of welcome. 
At this pfljfl|]j,^|rf n J^pbell made his 




" Glad to meet you, Prince," he said, 
coming forward . ' ' Scobell's my name. Shake 
hands with General Poineau. No, that's 
wrong. I suppose he kisses your hand, 
doesn't he ? " 

" I'll upper-cut him if he does," said John, 

Mr. Scobell eyed him doubtfully. His 
Highness did not appear to him to be treating 
the inaugural ceremony with that reserved 
dignity which we like to see in princes on 
these occasions. Mr. Scobell was a business 
man. He wanted his money's worth. His 
idea of a Prince of Mervo was something 
statuesquely aloof, something — he could not 
express it exactly — on the lines of the illus- 
trations in the Zenda stories, about eight feet 
high and shinily magnificent, something that 
would give the place a tone. That was what 
he had had in his mind when he sent for 
John. He did not want a cheerful young 
man in a Panama and a flannel suit, who 
appeared to regard the whole proceedings as 
a sort of pantomime rally. 

" There'll be breakfast at my villa, your 
Highness," said Mr. Scobell. " My car is 
waiting along there." 

Then Mr. Scobell cheered up. Perhaps a 
Prince who took a serious view pf his position 
would try to raise the people's minds, and 
start reforms and generally be a nuisance. 
John could, at any rate, be relied upon not 
to do that. His face cleared. 

" Have a good cigar . Prince ? " he said, 
cordially, inserting two fingers in his vest- 

" Good idea," said his Highness, affably. 
" Thanks." 

Breakfast over, Mr. Scobell replaced the 
remains of his cigar between his lips and 
turned to business. 

" I want you, Prince," said Mr. Scobell, 
" to help boom this place. That's where you 
come in." 

" Yes ? " said John. 

" As to ruling and all that," continued 
Mr. Scobell, " there isn't any to do. The 
place runs itself. Someone gave it a shove 
a thousand years ago, and it's been rolling 
along ever since. What I want you to do 
is the picturesque business. Entertain swells 
when they come here. Have a Court — see 
what I mean ? — like in England. Go round 
in aeroplanes, and that style of thing. Don't 
you worry about money. That'll be all 
right. You draw your steady twenty thou- 
sand a year, and a good bit more besides, 
when we begin to get moving." 

"Do I, by George?" said John. " It 

seems to me that I've fallen into a pretty 
soft thing here. There'll be a catch some- 
where, I suppose. There always is in these 
good things. But I don't see it yet. You 
can count on me all right." 

" Good boy," said Mr. Scobell. " And now 
you'll be wanting to get to the palace. I'll 
tell them to bring the car- round." 

The Council of State broke up. 

Having seen John off in the car, the financier 
proceeded to his sister's sitting-room. 

" Well," said Mr. Scobell, " he's come." 

" Yes, dear ? " 

" And he's just the sort I want. Saw the 
idea of the thing right away, and is ready to 
do anything. No nonsense about him." 

" Is he married ? " asked Miss Scobell. 

Her brother started. 

" Married ? I never thought of that. 
But no, of course he's not. He'd have men- 
tioned it. He's not the sort to hush up a 
thing like that. I " 

He stopped short. His green eyes gleamed 

" Marion ! " he cried. " Hi, Marion ! " 

"Well, dear?" 

" Listen. This thing is going to be big. 
I've got a new idea. It just came to me. 
Your saying that put it into my head. Do 
you know what I'm going to do ? I'm going 
to wire to Betty to come over here, and I'm 
going to arrange a marriage between her and 
this Prince." 

Miss Scobell sighed. 

" Very well, dear. I suppose you know 
best. But perhaps the Prince won't like 
Betty ! " 

Mr. Scobell gave a snort of disgust. 

" Marion," he said, " you've got a mind 
like a slab of wet dough. Can't you under- 
stand that the Prince is just as much in my 
employment as the man who scrubs the 
Casino steps ? I'm hiring him to be Prince 
of Mervo, and his first job as Prince of Mervo 
will be to marry Betty. It'll be a grand 
advertisement. ' Restoration of Royalty at 
Mervo.' That'll make them take notice by 
itself. Then, biff ! right on top of that, 
4 Royal Romance — Prince Weds English Girl 
— Love at First Sight— Picturesque Wedding.' 
We'll wipe Monte Carlo clean off the map, 

We It's the greatest scheme on earth. 

Here, where's a telegraph form ? " 



On a red sandstone rock at the edge of the 
water, where the island curved sharply out 




into the sea, Prince John of Mervo sat and 
brooded on First Causes. For nearly an 
hour and a half he had been engaged in an 
earnest attempt to trace to its source the 
acute fit of depression which had come — 
apparently from nowhere — to poison his 
existence thai morning. 

Then the thing stood revealed . beyond all 

If Would you care— ? " he had begun, 
and then he saw her face. 

It had all happened in an instant* Some 

chord in him, numbed till then, had begun 

to throb. It was as if he had waked from a 

dream, or returned to consciousness after 

being stunned. There was something in the 

sight of her, standing there so cool and neat 

and composed in the heat 

and stir of the Casino, that 

struck him like a blow. 

How long was it since he 
had seen her last ? Not 
more than a couple of years. 
It seemed centuries, 
Ik looked at her. And, 
he looked, he heard 


question of doubt. What had unsettled him 
was that unexpected meeting with Betty 
Silver last night a t the Casino. 

He generally visited the Casino after dinner* 
As a rule he merely strolled through the rooms, 
watching the play ; but last night he had 
slipped into a vacant seat* He had only just 
settled himself when he was aware of a girl 
standing beside him. He got up. 

England calling to him* Mervo, by the 
appeal of its novelty, had caused him to 
forget. Rut now, quite suddenly, he knew 
that he was homo-sick. 

** You — you don't remember me/' he 
stammered* She was flushing a little under 
his stare, but her eyes were shining* 

** I remember you very well, Mr* Maude/' 
she said, with a r>Ti[ufa| from 




" Won't you take this seat ? " said John. 

" No, thank you. I'm not playing. I 
only just stopped to look on. My aunt is in 
one of the rooms, and I want to make her 
come home. I'm tired." 

" Have you been in Mervo long ? " he said. 

" I only arrived this morning. I was in 
England and my stepfather — I wonder if 
you know him — Mr. Scobell ? " 

" Mr. Scobell ? Is he your stepfather ? " 

" Yes. He wired to me to come here. 
And I'm glad he did. It seems lovely. I 
must explore to-morrow." She was begin- 
ning to move off. 

" Er " John coughed, to remove what 

seemed to him a deposit of sawdust and un- 
shelled nuts in his throat. " Er— may I — 
will you let me show you some of the place 
to-morrow ? " 

" I should like it very much," she said. 

John made his big effort. He attacked 
the nuts and sawdust, which had come back 
and settled down again in company with a 
large lump of some unidentified material, 
and they broke before him. His voice rang 
out as if through a megaphone, to the uncon- 
cealed disgust of the neighbouring gamesters. 

" If you go along the path at the foot of the 
hill," he burst forth, rapidly, "and follow it 
down to the sea, you get to a little bay full of 
red sandstone rocks — you can't miss it — and 
there's a fine view of the island from there. 
I'd like awfully to show that to you. It's 

" Then shall we meet there ? " she said. 
" When ? " 

John was in no mood to postpone the event. 

" As early as ever you like," he said. 

" At about ten, then. Good night, Mr. 

John had reached, the bay at half-past 
eight, and had been on guard there ever 
since. It was now past ten, but still there 
were no signs of Betty. His depression 
increased. He told himself that she had 
forgotten. Then, that she had remembered, 
but had changed her mind. Then, that she 
had never meant to come at all. 

His mood became morbidly introspective. 
He was weighed down by a sense of his own 
unworthiness. He submitted himself to a 
thorough examination, and the conclusion 
to which he came was that, as an aspirant 
to the regard of a girl like Betty, he did not 
score a single point. 

He looked at his watch again, and the 
world grew black. It was half-past ten. 
He looked up the path for the hundredth 

Digitized by G< 

time. Above him lay the hill-side, dozing 
ill the morning sun ; below, the Mediter- 
ranean, sleek and blue, without a ripple. 
But of Betty there was no sign. 



Much may happen in these rapid times in 
the course of an hour and a half. While 
John was keeping his vigil on the sandstone 
rock, Betty was having an interview with Mr. 
Scobell which was to produce far-reaching 

The interview began, shortly after break- 
fast, in a gentle and tactful manner, with 
Aunt Marion at the helm. But Mr. Scobell 
was not the man to stand by silently while 
people were being tactful. At the end of the 
second minute he had plunged through his 
sister's mild monologue like a rhinoceros 
through a cobweb. 

" You say you want to know why you 
were wired for. I'll tell you. I suppose 
you've heard that there's a Prince here 
instead of a Republic now ? Well, that's 
where you come in." 

" Do you mean " She hesitated. 

" Yes/ I do," said Mr. Scobell. He went 
on rapidly. " This is a matter of State. 
You've got to drop fool notions and act for 
good of State. You've got to look at it in 
the proper spirit. Great honour — see what 
I mean ? Princess, and all that. Chance of 
a lifetime. Dynasty. You've got to look 
at it in that way." 

Betty had not taken her eyes off him from 
his first word. The shock of his words had 
to some extent numbed her. Then her mind 
began to work actively once more. 

" Do ypu mean that you want me to marry 
this Prince ? " she said. " I won't do any- 
thing of the sort." 

" Pshaw ! Don't be foolish." 

Betty's eyes shone mutinously. Her cheeks 
were flushed, and her slim, boyish figure 
quivered. Her chin, always determined, 
became a silent Declaration of Independence. 

" It's ridiculous," she said. " You talk as 
if you had just to wave your hand. Why 
should your Prince want to marry a girl he 
has never seen ? " 

" He will," said Mr. Scobell, confidently. 

" How do you know ? " 

" Because I know he's a sensible yoyng 
fellow. That's how. You're thinking that 
Mervo is an ordinary State, and that the 
Prince is one of those independent, all-wool, 
off-with-his-head rulers like you read about 
in the novels. Well, he isn't. If you want 




to know who's the big man here, it's me — me ! 
This Prince is simply my employe. See ? 
Who sent for him ? I did. Who put him 
on the throne ? I did. Who pays him his 
salary ? I do, from the profits of the Casino. 
Now do you understand ? He knows his 
job. He knows which side his bread's 
buttered. When I tell him about this mar- 
riage, do you know what he'll say ? He'll 
say, * Thank you, sir ! ' That's how things 
are in this island." 

Betty shuddered. Her face was white 
with humiliation. 

" There's another thing," said Mr. Scobell. 
" Perhaps you think he's some kind of a 
foreigner ? Perhaps that's what's worrying 
you. Let me tell you that he's an English- 
man — pretty nearly as English as you are 

Betty stared at him. 

" An Englishman ! " 

" Don't believe it, eh ? Well, let me tell 
you that his mother was born in Birmingham, 
and that he has lived all his life in England. 
He's no foreigner. He's a Cambridge man, 
six feet high, and weighs thirteen stone. 
That's the sort of man he is." 

Betty uttered a cry. 

" Who is he ? " she cried. " What was his 
name before he— when he " 

" His name ? " said Mr. Scobell. " John 
Maude. Maude was his mother's name. She 
was a Miss Westley. Here, where are you 
going ? " 

Betty was walking slowly towards the door. 
Something in her face checked Mr. Scobell. 

" I want to think," she said, quietly. " I'm 
going out." 

At half-past twelve that morning business 
took; Mr. Benjamin Scobell to the Royal 
palace. He was not a man who believed in 
letting the grass grow under his feet. He 
prided himself on his briskness of attack. 

In this matter of the Royal alliance it was 
his intention to have at it and clear it up at 
once. Having put his views clearly before 
Betty, he now proposed to lay them with 
equal clarity before the Prince. 

Arriving at the palace, he was informed 
that his Highness had gone out shortly after 
breakfast and had not returned. He received 
the news equably, and directed his chauffeur 
to return to the villa. He could not have done 

better, for on his arrival he was met with the 
information that his Highness was waiting 
in the morning-room. 

" Why, Prince," said Mr. Scobell, " this is 
lucky. I've been looking for you." 

" Where is Miss Silver ? " said John. 

Mr. Scobell looked astonished. 

" Do you know Betty ? " 

" I used to know her in England. We 
met last night at the Casino. I was to have 
met her again this morning, but " — he gulped 
— " but she didn't come, I thought I should 
find her here." 

Mr. Scobell's green eyes sparkled. There 
was no mistaking the tone of John's voice. 
Fate was certainly smoothing his way. 

" She'll be here all right," he said, con- 
solingly. " I expect she forgot to keep the 
appointment. Now I think of it " 

There was a knock at the door. A footman 
entered, bearing a letter on a silver tray. 

Mr. Scobell slit the envelope and began to 
read. As he did so his eyes grew round, and 
his mouth slowly opened till his cigar-stump, 
after hanging for a moment from his lower lip, 
dropped off like an exhausted bivalve and 
rolled along the carpet. 

" Prince," he gasped, " she's gone ! Betty ! " 

" Gone ! What do you mean ? " 

" She's half-way to Marseilles by now. 
Listen to what she says. 

" ' By the time you read this I shall be 
gone. I am giving this to a boy to take to 
you after the boat has started. Please do 
not try and follow me to bring me back, for 
it will be no use. I shall never come back. 
I am going right away.' " 

John was still staring. 

" But why ? Why should she go away 
like that ? What could have made her 
do it?" 

Mr. Scobell's mouth had opened to explain, 
when a prudent instinct closed it. Something 
told him that this was no moment to reveal 
to John the scheme in which he was to have 

" Some fool notion, I suppose," he said. 
" Girls are like that." 

John had begun to pace the room. Sud- 
denly he stopped. 

"I'm going after her," he said. 
. Mr. Scobell beamed approval. 

" Good for you, Prince," he said. " Go 
to it ! " 

(To be concluded in two more instalments.) 

ed by Google 

Original from 


The Greek type of beauty. 


A Symposium of Artists, 

Scientists. Athletes, and 



The: Greek type in English beauty. 

Photo. LaUie Gtartei. 


N these days, when the science 
of humeri breeding is attract- 
ing widespread attention, is 
it not important that we 
should have some standard 
of physical perfection set 
before us ? 
We are so accustomed to regard the ancient 
Greeks as having generally attained the 
maximum of human beauty that it is some- 
thing of a shock to be told by more than one 
scholar that the Greeks, even of the age of 
Pericles , were, on the whole, a plain, under- 
sized lot, and that it is chiefly to the art of 
the sculptor that they owe their national 
reputation. The ideal Greek standard as dis- 
played in their seufp.ure is, however, generally 
regarded as the highest of which the human 
race is capable, and, at any rate, a convenient 
text upon which to base our symposium. 

The late Lord Leighton, P.R.A. ; said ; — 
u Unquestionably the nearest approach to 
the Greek female type is the modern English- 
woman of the upper and upper-middle class, 
The original of the Venus de Mile, were she 
to appear amongst us to-day, would probably 
be regarded as a typical Englishwoman, 
There are the long limbs, the eloquent lines 
and freedom from embonpoint } and the placid 
dignity of bearing which distinguishes the 
Englishwoman from her sisters on the 
Continent, With the men it is different. 
Other races — the Italians, the Turks, the South 
Sea Islanders — are more symmetrical, and 
even more virile. But the Englishwoman is 

But do other authorities concede this 
Digitized by OOdQTe 

superiority even to Englishwomen ? There is 
Professor Otto Bcrgmann, of Munich, whose 
dictum is as follows : — 

" The English frequently arrogate to them- 
selves a physical perfection as a race which 
they are far from having attained. While it is 
true that amongst their upper classes height 
and symmetry are often met with, yet any 
sculptor will tell you that the Italians are 
far their superior in symmetry and the Turks 
in stature. I should put the Swiss or the 
Scandinavian races above the English. The 
natives of Samoa are probably the most 
beautiful race in the world, Even the French 
have far better hair, eyes, and teeth than the 
English. Most Englishwomen are far too 
angular and stooping to conform to anv 
classical standard of beauty, while our 
Germans have far loo much embonpoint" 

Now let us see what our authorities, 
painters, sculptors, anatomists, eugenists, 
physical culturists, have to say to this. 
Every picture-lover knows the predilection 
for physical beauty expressed by Mr. Marcus 
Stone j R.A., in his canvases. His human 
figures are there all comely, ail symmetrical, 
all attractive. This famous painter would 
sin against his artistic canons were he to 
delineate physical imperfection. 

** The Anglo-Saxon," he writes, £i amongst 
the nations whose characteristics I have had 
an opportunity of carefully observing, is 
more often lacking in any suggestion of the 
1 Hellenic standard J of form than any other 
race — except the German, who are of our 

" Our inarticulate and incomplete type of 
form is more marked in women than in men. 




u If we cross the Channel and move south- 
ward, we at once find a marked improvement. 
The French have hands — a very unfinished 
appendage with us. 

" 1 once saw about a hundred French 
soldiers marched on to the sea-shore to bathe. 
Their average form was, without question, 
very superior to the nude seen in our country. 

11 The movement is more varied, expressive, 
and ' true ' with the French, Italian, and 
Eastern nations. The ungainly, constrained 
action of the British rate is opposed to even 
development. The English artisan affects a 
stooping, lop-sided slouch. The French and 
Italian workmen have a natural movement 
and deportment ; the self-con&cious English 
an uncouth and inexpressive demeanour. 
The Italian is a typical human creature. 
The self-conscious cultivation of uncouthness 
and inexpressiveness permeates all classes 
and both sexes in England. Our want of grace 
is largely the effect, but in a small degree the 
cause, of our lack of distinction in farm," 

Flatly opposed to this opinion is that of the 
celebrated sculptor, Mr. 
Ha mo Thornycroft , R. A. , 
whose M Teucer J ' and 
M Artemis " testify to his 
Greek spirit: — 

** Circumstances and en- 
vironment so soon affect the 
physical aspect that 
to discover the type 
of a people it is 
essential to look at 
the young and un- 
spoilt of those in 
comfortable a nd 
well-to-do condi- 
tions. The * Hel- 
lenic standard 1 
soon disappears in 

the wear and tear of city life. Fashion 
may try to hide the type— may appear 
to destroy it for a time, if one forms an 
opinion from adults, 

11 I fear that my knowledge of Euro- 
pean nations is insufficient for me to 
judge where one approaches nearest to 
the Greek standard, 
hut of all cities with 
which I am acquainted 
there is none in which 
one sees so many beau- 
tiful women as in 
Western London, The 
greater part of our 
Metropolis is now so 

If. 4. LEBKA 

A fine specimen of rhe modern athlete on cl^ical 

foreign as to be no longer English. During 
the disastrous period of the South African 
War it was customary for the illustrated 
papers to give photographic: portraits of 
the scores of officers, mostly young, who 
were killed. This was no list selected for 
their good looks, but probably selected by 
Death because they were the bravest. In 
that long gallery of portraits I think I saw 
the English type, and I believe it might safely 
challenge any country in the world to show 
a type nearer to the ' Hellenic standard.' ' 

Mr, Frank Dicksee, R,A M holds the opinion 
that no true decision can be arrived at by 
comparing particular classes ; hut that only 
by examining the average types of each 
nation can any fair comparison be made. 
" The subject, therefore," he says, " not only 
requires much thought, but a vast amount of 
travel in order that one may become ac- 
quainted with all the different types of each 
people. Taking an average in this way, I 
certainly do not regard the English race as 
beautiful. There is no doubt that the stan- 
dard of physical perfection is very low in 
some parts of the country, particularly in 
the large manufacturing towns, and our 
average is thus rendered 
decidedly poor. Occasion- 
ally I have met a young man 
or woman of the country 
hir above the average, and 
more nearly approaching the 
true Grecian type than the 
best specimens I have seen 
of other nations that I have 
visited. The Italians and 
other Southern races are 
certainly more graceful in 
their movements (the Arabs, 
for instance, possess a dig- 
nity which the Englishman 
does not begin to attempt), 
and are finer in appearance 
t h- m average Englishmen, 

" 1 think that the German 
race averages physically 
rather higher than our own, 
for they have the advantage 
of universal military train- 
ing, a measure which, if 
introduced in this 
country, would pro- 
duce an immense 
improvement in the 
health, strength, 
and beauty of the 

Fr» m a J'JW<*™pA &* Sport * Q*manQr\ Q \ H 3 1 f HO nffWtlOn.' 




M English beauty is good enough for me/' 
writes Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, R.A,, 
and this painter's knowledge of both Greek 
and Roman beauty is considered profound. 

ti I am sure/ 1 says Mr. Briton Rivi£re ; R*A- 3 
£( that the average standard of beauty among 
Englishwomen has improved during my life- 
time, and also her growth and physical 
development^ but I am afraid I cannot say 
the same of Englishmen. To get at the true 
type one must study those who for genera- 
tions have been well nourished and well cared 
for — that is to say, the upper classes ; and 
amongst our society women will be found a 
general standard of beauty unequalled by 
any other race of the world that I have seen. 

tt shoots out stiffly and deliberately. The 
Italian will perform the same action with a 
graceful sweep which cannot easily be de- 
scribed in words j but of .which the grace is 
very apparent to the beholder," 

Sir William Goscombe John, R-A M believes 
that the Southern Italians are probably the 
finest race in the world. 

M External symmetry of contour is less 
frequently met with amongst the northern 
races. It is true they have not stature, but 
stature often implies disproportion of the 
limbs, and alsogauntness or angularity, which 
is associated with the fair-haired peoples,' 1 

From the exponents of art, let us turn to 

From a Photograph fry] THE MEN OF THE FINEST PHYSIQUE IN THE WORLD, [Sport J: (feiieraL 

What Lord Leigh ton said— that the English- 
woman certainly approaches most nearly to 
the classic Greek type— I believe to be true. 

11 The average size of our men has, I think, 
increased. I believe that most of the suits 
of armour at the Tower of London would be 
too small for the use of an average man at 
the present day, But I do not think they 
are more handsome or of better physique 
than the public-school boys and University 
men of forty years ago. 

*' I entirely agree with Mr. Marcus Stone 
in all he says about the more expressive 
movements of the Italian and Eastern races. 
Tell an Englishman to hold out his arm. and 

— jy Googic 

the anthropologists, the writers on eugenics, 
the physical culturists, and, last but not 
least, to the travellers. Thus, the author 
of " The Living Races of Mankind/' Mr, 
IL X, Hutchinson, writes: — 

M As to the whole English race, they may or 
may not be inferior — so much depends on a 
man's or woman's occupation and surround- 
ings, But I really do think that the men and 
women of England who belong to the upper^ 
middle class and have had a good education 
are a better type physically than those of 
any other European country of the same 
class, Our games, public schools, and Univer- 
sities have do^e much to develop our bodies, 




Our sports (hunting, golf, cricket, football) 
have all had a hand in this great work, 
and I am not ashamed of the men and 
women I meet, of our class. I consider them, 
physically and m orally , superior to any other 
in Europe/' n . 

1 The question of the finest people/' writes 
Dr, C. W, Saleeby, the 
well-known exponent of 
eugenics or race-culture 
and the author o£ 
"does certainly 
those who 
are what I 
call eugen- 
ists. Phy- 
sical beauty 
and effici- 
ency — so 
— areamong 
the objects 
at which we 
are bound to 
aim. But 

what the m 
present t 
facts are I 
do not 
know. Such 
chances of 
as I have 
had lead me 
the opinion 
quoted, on 
the whole, 

really, you 
know, there is an- 
other question. If 
we study Sir George 
Newman's last report, 
we find that the nation's 
school - children are wan da lottkko. 

i_ -li i a j b, Th« Italian type of beauty which many criiie* i h ii At 

abominably neglected ; /^j J ^ u Dr ™lW." iuititomru*. 

inspected, yes ; treated, 
no. If malnutrition is the rule among our 
urban stocks, and prevails through the whole 
period of development, as we permit it, in our 
ignorance and carelessness, to do, how can we 
expect to approach the Hellenic standard — that 
of a race which consciously aimed at physical 
fitness, and began with its young people ? 
** The Lowland Scotch used to be unsur- 


passed for stature. But now the children 
have jam and white bread instead of oatmeal 
porridge, and the old pre-eminence is gone. 
Let us stop boasting ; let us learn from the 
sculptors and artists that, even when we do 
try, wc aim wrongly, as in the case of our 
girls, whom we try to make, not women, but 
men of ; and then, in another generation, 
let us take stock again, 
Meanwhile, all blessings 
on you, or anyone else, 
who will persistently 
a! tract public at- 
u niion to the ques- 
tion of ques- 
tions, the 
culture of 
the racial 
life j which is 
the vital 
industry of 
any people," 

Dr. Harri- 
son Fetrie 
writes : — 

" After a 
f am iliarity 
with most of 
the races of 
the globe ex- 
tending over 
a period of 
thirty years, 
I have come 
to the con- 
clusion that, 
merely as 
fine animals, 
the palm 
must be 
awarded, as 
tomen,to the Span- 
ish peasant, and to 
women, to the lower- 
class Venetians* Of 
course, when you speak 
of a fine man or 
woman, or a fine horse 
or dog, much depends 
upon what class of animal you are speaking 
of. But if you mean symmetry, suppleness, 
erect carriage, good hair, eyes, teeth, well- 
shaped hands and feet, then I say you will 
find the selection I have made hard to beat. 

" You can, of course, find greater height, 
greater strength, more roundness. The Zulu 
is a fine animal , bv.t his hands and feet, to say 


I S 2 


nothing of his features, are against him, in 
addition to the question of hair. Lank, 
colourless hair is also a drawback amongst 
most of the northern races, and indifferent 
teeth would lose them a point or two. The 
French have a term — race — which expresses 
a certain full-bloodedness, a richness of blood 
and bearing which is very uncommon in 
northern countries, but which I have found 
very common in Spain.'' 

The views of so great an exponent of 
physical culture as Mr. Sandow T deserve to 
be heard with the utmost respect , and what 
he has to say is highly attractive, 

" You have," he writes, " raised a question 
of undoubted interest, and one 
which has a practical bearing 
upon many matters, both of 
individual and of national intr- 
rest. I cannot see that the 
superior 'symmetry' of the 
Italians or the superior stature 
of the Turks necessarily implies 
physical superiority, ' Sym- 
metry 1 is a somewhat elastic 
word j and authorities are by no 
means agreed upon the sym- 
metrical proportions of the ideal 
man. Too often 'symmetry* U 
determined by the eye, which 
is a very unreliable criterion in 
such a matter, Due regard must 
be paid to what I call power of 
accomplish men t ; for, after all. a 
man's physical fitness can only 
be determined by his physical 

u Judged from this saner 
standpoint, the Englishman is, 
in my experience, the superior 
of other races. English habits 
of life, and particularly the 
national fondness for all 
forms of outdoor sport and 
exercise, give an advan- 
tage in point of hardiness, 
of nervous tone, of physi- 
cal alertness, and of mus- 
cular capability which the 
phlegmatic Turk and the 
super-nervous Italian 
do not possess. And 
who can deny the im- 
portance of the quali- 
ties to which I have 
just referred ? They 
are the essential quali- 
ties of physical fitness. 

"If the question were simply one of 
muscular development, I should be inclined 
to award the palm to the Scandinavian ; but 
in his case muscular strength is discounted 
by comparatively slow action. 

" We must remember that physical effici- 
ency largely depends upon the rapidity with 
which the muscles respond to the call of the 
brain. A semi-inert body of tremendous 
muscular strength is decidedly inferior to a 
more highly-trained and more quickly respon- 
sive system of less actual power. Here is 
where the alert energy of the Englishman 
tells— and thw alertness is a national charac- 
"I have studied attentively the physique 
and capability of most races in 
the world, and this outstanding 
merit of the English race has 
always impressed me as a great 
secret of their racial supremacy. 
The only nation which in any 
way approaches the English in 
this respect is that amazingly 
agile , hard-trained, and energetic 
nation , the Japanese. 

t[ Finally f if we regard the 
question as one of ideal sym- 
metry, and accept the classic 
standard as a safe criterion, I 
have no hesitation in saying 
that, judging from my personal 
observations in thousands of 
cases, given equal training, there 
is no question that the English- 
man, with his better stamina 
and greater alertness, responds 
most favourably to systematic 
body-culture in the form of 
appropriate physical exercise, 
and attains a degree of sym- 
melrical perfection only excelled 
by the idealized heroes of anti- 
quity — classic models which 
probably owe their wonderful 
perfection to the imagination 
of the sculptor. 

" The moderate climate, the 
healthy activities, and the clearly 
hygienic habits of the English- 
man are all in his favour f and 
have resulted in a race which, if 
trained, can produce the 
finest examples of properly- 
developed manhood." 

"The average English man 

and woman/ 1 writes Mr. 

A ^E£2Ki *2Z ' Eusl« e Miles," arc not to be 




found j as people generally assume that they 
are, in the English country-house. We have 
to take into consideration the masses in our 
great cities- A fair idea of these people may 
be gathered as one walks through the slums, 
or visits Southend during the summer holi- 
days, The physique of the young men and 
women is very far below the standard shown 
by the Greek statues. 

tl But too much nonsense is talked about 
the Greeks. There were very few Greek 
citizens compared with the population of 
Greece. There was an enormous slave popu- 
lation, which most writers about the Greeks 
are pleased to ignore. I am surprised that 
scholars do not oftener refute the fal- 
lacy that the average inhabitant of 
ancient Greece was a highly-educated 
man* When Athens was in its prime, 
for example p for every one Athenian 
there were several slaves. It is easy 
enough to be highly edu- 
cated if you can get slaves 
to do much of your work 
for you, 

" With regard to the shape 
of a man and his external 
symmetry ? I do not think 
we should lay too much 
stress upon it. The import- 
ant things are physical 
health, endurance, quick- 
ness, adaptability. These 
are not always to be found 
with a well : moulded figure ; 
certainly they are not to be 
found with' the typical 

" And, besides, to-day 
we should lay stress on the 
brain and the morale-, rather 
than on the physical ap- 
pearance* So much we can 
get done by machinery that 
the power of directing and 
controlling ourselves, which 
is a mental power, has be- 
come of more importance 
than mere physical strength 
or symmetry of form." 

" One of the finest 
object-lessons/ 1 writes 
Professor Meredith 
(lease, " given to the 
British public on race 
perfection was on the 
occasion of the last 
Olympic Games. Some 

Vol xHiL^fl. 




dozen different countries sent picked repre- 
sentatives from the flower of their youth # 
On the opening day there was a grand parade 
of the nations before our late King Edward, 
I had the honour of assisting in the marshal- 
ling of this historic gathering, The entire 
body, in countries, marched around the 
arena, and the unanimous opinion was that 
the British contingent was by far the poorest 
specimen present, both in physique and 
deportment ; as a matter of fact, the British 
section looked very much undersized. True, 
the British selection committee could have 
placed a much finer and more representative 
body on the field if they had chosen, Apart 
from this demonstration at the 
Olympic gathering three years ago, 
there are no means to-day of judging 
which nation is the finest in physique. 
During my twenty-six years' experi- 
examined and measured 
some hundreds of thou- 
sands of both sexes and 
of all classes. I am bound 
to admit that the average 
physical standard of the 
British race is decreas- 
ing in both height and 
general physique, while, . 
to my knowledge, with 
one other nation — the 
American — it is increas- 
ing. The reason for this 
difference is not far to 
seek. In America those 
responsible for the wel- 
fare of that nation have 
fully recognized that the 
overcrowding of cities, 
the increased hustle and 
bustle for existence,must 
eventually mean the 
physical degeneration of 
the race if something is 
not done to give the only 
true antidote — syste- 
matic physical exercise. 
Towards this end 
municipal autho- 
rities of all the 
larger cities have 
installed a plenti- 
ful supply of 
gymnasia. For 
instance > in my 
last visit to the 
States, six years 
ago, I found that 





the size of our Liverpool) had no fewer than 
six fully-equipped physical training schools, 
each far larger than England's largest (Army, 
Aldershot), and, above all, the cost of tuition 
is practically nil — they are State-aided ; and 
they are always full. The feeders of these 
schools are the public elementary schools, 
where physical exercise is compulsory— and 
often. The result of about ten years of this 
State effort to stem the tide of degeneration 
is now being felt and seen. In another 
twenty-five years I unhesitatingly say that 
America will be the finest race. 

11 There is one most important factor in the 
State-aided scheme — the physical educator, 
or teacher, is looked upon as a high-class 

The Scandinavian is a fine specimen of 
humanity, but too rough-hewn to accord 
with the ancient Greek ideal. In England, 
the highest and upper -middle classes have an 
appearance of distinction in face and figure 
but rarely found in other countries, but the 
bulk of the nation has no claim to any par- 
ticular beauty of form or feature, and has no 
idea of graceful and dignified movement, 
such as is possessed by Italians, Spaniards, 
Magyars, Japanese, Moors, Polynesians, 
American Indians, and— in the highest degree 
— by many of the races of India. 

" As far as concerns female beauty of 
features and of colouring, the United King- 
dom stands first, and Ireland contributes 
the largest share to this British victory in 
the world's beauty competition. But — there 
is a ' but ' — the beauty of British girls and 
women is marred (except in the case of the 
Irish) by lack of vivacious expression. The 
face is too often a stony mask ; it frequently 
wears a haughty expression or one of 

professional, and is paid a high -class -salary 
accordingly, As a matter of fact, the 
physical culture teacher is on the same plane 
as a medical man ; many of them hold 
medical degrees, consequently the physical 
welfare of the nation is in the hands of com- 
petent experts* 

" The same conditions exist in Sweden- 
hen ce the Swede J s perfect physique, which 
was so marked at our Olympic gathering. 

(i In England; apart from a very indifferent 
physical training in our elementary schools 
{public schools almost nil)> the physical wel- 
fare of the nation is left almost in the hands 
of private enterprise." 

In conclusion we come to three famous 
travellers > who have seen and moved amongst 
the various races of the earth with open eyes. 
Mr, Arthur Diosy writes that in his opinion : — 

" The average; individual belonging to that 
mixture of many racial^ elements known" as 
the English people cannot rightly claim to 
* approximate most closely to the Hellenic 
standard/ The average Italian of Central 
Italy comes much nearer to that standard. 

Digitized by VjOOQie 



Frvm a PhoioQrn ph by Tvpicnl. 

suspicion, so that the chiselled features or 
the smooth curves, the large } clear eyes with 
their long lashes /the lovely complexion, lose 
the greater part of their artistic value. 

" The figure of the British woman has 
improved of late years, but Her gait is still 
deplorable* That of the men varies between 
the free swing of the athlete and the uncouth 
slouch common to the Etonian and the 
4 clod-hopper.' 

"Less self-consciousness- and more scien- 
tifically-thought-out physical training would 
work wonders in improving the gait and 
bearing of the English 1 people. Universal 
military training, apparently inevitable before 
many years have passed, -Will probably ensure 
this improvement. 

' For the present, I would award the prize 
for manly beauty to those warlike races of 




India — Sikhs and Rajputs ; for female 
beauty of face to the women of Ireland, of 
form to the girls of Samoa, and, in Europe, 
to those of Central Italy/ 7 

Sir Ernest Shackleton writes : — 
11 I have never heard it stated before that 
the English arrogate to themselves a physical 
perfection which they are far from having 
attained, I have never heard that the 
English desired to have the same proportions 
as the classical Greek. I quite allow that the 
Polynesians and Italians have a symmetry 
in appearance on finer lines than the Anglo- 
Saxon race ; but I speak with a certain amount 
of know ledge j as I have visited every country 
in the world , from China to the South Seas, 
and the conclusion that I have come to is 
that symmetry and graceful appearance 
count but little, and that virility and muscular 
strength j though perhaps not beautiful in 
outward form, are the determining factors 
in success, coupled with brains— and who will 
deny the brain-power of the Anglo-Saxon 
race ? If one takes the portraits of nearly 
every great man of any nation, the first thing 
one observes is that they do not conform to 
any standard of classical features, and I 
would join issue with Professor Bergmann 
when he says that most Englishwomen are 
far too angular and stooping to conform to 
any standard of beauty* The chances are — 
taking even Italy— that when one sees a 
beautiful woman walking along ; she is either 
English or .American, ^ However, after all, 
beauty and frrm are terms proportionate tg 
the minds that conceive tEem. ' *-/' 

Sir Sven Hedin says : — 

tc In physical accomplishment there is no 
race in Europe that could be compared with 
the Swedes and Norwegians. I mean speci- 
ally in height, as has been statistically proved 
as clearly as possible, As an average, no 
other nation in Europe has so high-grown men 
and women as Sweden, and I dare say they 
are as well grown as those of any other nation, 

* ( Everybody who comes to the Olympic 
Games in Stockholm next summer will be 
able to judge of these facts for himself. 

" I think Professor Bergmann is, however, 
very unjust to the English. Specially it cannot 
be said to be chivalrous to call the English- 
women * too angular. 1 Most English ladies I 
know are very charming and far from angular." 

And, now, what is the result of these most 
interesting expressions of opinion as to which 
is the finest race in the world ? Broadly speak- 
ing, the majority of votes for physical beauty 
go to the Italians j especially as regards the 
men. So far, however, as women only are 
concerned the beauties of the British Isles 
carry off the palm, although not by any 
means without opposition, The Scandinavian 
nations stand high up in the list as regards 
both sexes, and the Turks and trench are 
selected more than once. On the other hand, 
the Germans are never mentioned, except in 
disparagement ; while, save for the Spanish, 
the other nations of Europe are practically 
ignored. Americans will be pleased to see 
that they are picked out by one of the 
highest authorities as the most fast-improving 
race on the face of the globe. 


Americans ar* thought by some to be the most fast -improving race in the world. 



The Grandchildren of Charles Dickens who 
will Benefit hy the Centenary Fund. 

Soon after this issue of The Strand is pub- 
lished the one hundredth birthday of Charles 
Dickens will be celebrated, not merely in the 
English - speaking world, 
but by the great novel- 
ist's admirers in many 
lands. The Dickens Cen- 
tenary Fund, inaugurated 
in the pages of this maga- 
zine; will by this time — 
thanks to many loyal 
workers — have attained 
such proportions as to place 
those five grand daughters 
of the author of '* David 
Copperfield/* for whom we 
made our appeal, for ever 
out of the reach of want. 
We felt convinced that that 
appeal would not fall upon 
deaf ears, and that that 

in the production of books. The Greek philo 
sopher spoke of a man's children and grand- 
children as an " extension of his personality/ 7 
On their grandfathers 
hundredth birthday The 
Strand Magazine wishes 
these five grand -daughter? 
of Dickens, these f* ex- 
tensions of his person- 
ality." whose patience 
and pluck in adversity 
are now known to us all. 
a long, happy, and a 
useful life, and that they 
may repeat amongst 
themselves, in Tiny Tim's 
phrase, the thought of 
many thousands of Dickens- 
lovers : — 

" God bless us even- 

From a 


From u photograph ftp Mont, Rriphtv>,. 


3 y Google 


Fr&nt a Pttbtoyrujth ity 
O. Vnndjtk. 

which Dickens did 
for his face; in 
Lord Rosebery's 
words, established for 
him '* a firm grasp 
on the gratitude of 
man kind. " What 

we have given them 
is theirs by a moral 
right. Subscribers to 
the fund j even though 
only to the extent 
of a single Dickens 
stamp, were but dis- 
charging some small 
portion of a debt. 
For, as we said at 
the out set , if there 
IS any argument in 
favour of vested rights 
in land, houses, or 
chattels, that argu- 
ment is also true of 


B who have to'lg rigina|ff8ph .«-«i^ a r 


Tanzteurel s 




Illustrated by Rene Bull, 


}igs : 

HE renowned Professor Tanz- 
teufel came back from the 
theatre grinding his teeth in 
jealousy, for was he not the 
composer of two hundred and 
nine dances, including waltzes, 
polkas, mazurkas, fandangos, 
barn-dances, and two-steps, not one of 
which had as yet attained a lithe of the popu- 
larity of the u Bul-bul Jt waltz, with which 
every capital of Europe had been taken by 
storm ? A certain rhythm, a particular salta- 
tory figure, and the trick was done. Then 
the Professor would awake to find himself 
famous, and the royalties would begin to pour 
in and he would retire to a schfoss on the 
Danube. When he asked the night-porter 
of the Adelphi Palace for the key of his bed- 
room that official was whistling a bar of u The 
Waltz Dream. Tt 

1 The Waltz Dream! 115 snorted the Pro- 
f ^or to himself. " 4 The Waltz Nightmare ! ' 
Jiow is it that these miserable mediocrities 
have all the luck ? But my time will come, 
Ar "d ^vhen it comes— ah 1 then Til have 
no mercy, Every man 3 woman, and child — 
every gramophone, every hurdy-gurdy, every 
Jews-harp shall sweat my melody, every 
pttt of pumps shall tread my measure. I'll 
*f ll the tune, and, by St. Vitus, they shall 
dance I " 

Ordinarily Professor Tanzteufel was the 

by Google 

mildest-mannered music-master who ever cut 
a caper, but to-night he was distinctly out 
of temper. Usually when he disrobed ideas 
came to him, and he donned his pyjamas 
andante j M lifting a leg, 1 ' as the Irish say, with 
spirit and intention ; but to-night he might 
as well have stood on his head for all the 
inspiration he got, and. to crown his disgust, 
a belated organ-grinder in the street struck 
up the staircase movement from " The Count 
of Luxembourg. TJ This was too much, and 
the Professor closed his window with a hang 
and stuffed cotton-wool into his ears. When 
he had turned off the light and got between 
the sheets the monotonous rumble-tumble 
of the traffic lulled him ? and he finally sank 
into a troubled sleep. He dreamt that he 
was a beautiful young woman — a premiere 
dunseuse with golden hair like an advertise- 
ment for " Capillino " and a hat several sizes 
larger than King Theebaw's umbrella. He 
was in a drawing-room, a stage drawing- 
room, with a crowd of princesses, duchesses, 
ambassadors, low comedians, and domestics 
holding hands and viewing him with admira- 
tion as he stood exchanging soft nothings with 
his inamorata in the limelight. And then all 
of a sudden came the melody again. 

Out went the Professor's right leg, kicking 
off the counterpane— out went hb left leg, 
violently displacing the sheets and blankets. 
Then a gentle swaying motion this way and 


i5 8 


a pedal staccato that, accompanied by a con- 
volution of the whole anatomy, and the 
Professor sprang up — awake. Eureka ! No, 
It was gone ! But that was the theme — the 
movement he had striven so long to attain. 
He was at last on the threshold of the elusive 
masterpiece — that masterpiece which was to 
bring him fortune. 

The Professor sprang out of bed and turned 
on the light. He turned on all the lights. 
Though the room was slightly chilly and he 
was clad only in his pyjamas, he would never 
have observed this if he could only have 
recaptured the refrain at once. But after a 
few vigorous movements he came to a stand- 
still Upon reflection he tried again ; alas ! 
without success. All he could think of was 
the first bar. Beyond that was a dreary 

M Perhaps if I go back to bed I shall dream 
of it again/' 
murmured the 
Professor, and 
he crawled once 
more between 
the sheets, his 
teeth chattering 
together like 
castanets, only 
castanets accom- 
pany a fandango, 
not a waltz . 
Again he sank 
into slumber, 
and this time, 
instead of 
dreaming he 
was a beautiful 
" star " in musi- 
cal comedy or 
light opera, he 
dreamt he was 
a plantation 
negro in a canoe 

going over Niagara Falls, Just as he 
approached the brink of the terrible cataract 
he started up in the canoe and began to foot 
a dreamy, delirious measure. 

It was so dreamy and delirious that the 
canoe paused on the brink ; the spectators 
on the banks held their breath and, what was 
more wonderful still, the Falls themselves 
began to beat time to the music. Midway 
in the enthralling, intoxicating refrain the 
Professor awoke, and found that he was in 
the middle of the floor dancing with might 
and main, with several objects scattered 
about him. Ah, but the " Eureka " waltz ! 
If he could" only remember the move- 


merit, then fame and fonune were within 
his grasp. 

The Professor got into his dressing-gown 
and tried to think. Suddenly an inspiration 
came to him, and he began capering about 
vigorously in a frantic endeavour to overtake 
the coy Terpsichore* If in the process he 
overturned a chair and collided with a table, 
he was oblivious to such trifles, and went 
madly on. He was also oblivious to the fact 
that it was three o'clock in the morning, and 
that the hotel was filled with inmates, some 
of whom were naturally exasperated at having 
their slumbers disturbed by. a veritable 
pandemonium. One of them — a commercial 
traveller — went down and complained to the 
night-porter that there was a drunken 
roysterer in number sixteen, who richlv 
deserved to be locked up, and a maiden ladv 
m number fifteen became so alarmed that 

she began to 
dress herself, 
after first double- 
bolting the door 
and moving the 
washstand be- 
fore it as an 
additional pre- 
caution. On the 
floor below pieces 
of plaster came 
down on to the 
bed of the man- 
ager of the hotel 
and caused him 
to become un- 
wontedly pro- 
fane. The Pro- 
fessor was inter* 
rupted in the 
very delirium of 
his gyrations by 
the apparition of 
several figures in 
deshabille at the door he had forgotten to lock. 
14 A thousand-- pardons ! ." he exclaimed, 
bowing humbly. ' You behold in me the 
victim of a difficult art," : 

u Art ! ** snorted the commercial traveller; 
" more like bad whisky," ' 

(t Sir ! " retorted Tanzteufel, " you do me 
an injustice. I am a professor of the dance. 
I awoke just now'and endeavoured to realize 
a rare inspiration. I apologize/ 1 The Pro- 
fessor looked so abject and crestfallen that 
the manager had not the heart to attack him, 
but, having switched off the light, closed the 
door, and hoped for his sake there would K 
u no more of it — that's all." 
Original from 






Nevertheless, although the Pro- 
fessor was quiet until morning, the 
ghost of the "Eureka" was not so 
easily laid, and at a most awkward 
moment, when he was having a 
bath, he seemed to hear the swish- 
ing of its skirts as he toyed with his 

" Aha ! ** cried the Professor, 
standing erect and churning the 
water with his nether limbs* But 
this was too precarious, and he 
waltzed out of the bath in puris 
naiuralihus, only to find it hardly 
less precarious on the bath-room 

At the break fast- table he thought 
he had it fast. " Do-mi-mi-do ! " 
he hummed, and started up with 
outstretched limb, leaving the break- 
fast things and the Daily Lyre to 

take care of themselves. Slowly, as one in a 
trance, the Professor revolved before the 
astonished spectators, w r ho gazed with knives 
and forks upraised at this respectable, middle- 
aged gentleman who had suddenly been 
seized with a fit of epilepsy. The head- 
waiter was not so complaisant ; he laid 
hands on the Professor just too late to avert 
a catastrophe with a tray, and also just in 
time to destroy the peerless rhythm utterly. 
D&nner und Blitzen ! 

No more breakfast for the Professor, It 
was his second day in London— he had come 
over to attend the funeral of an old friend 
and colleague, Herr Fumperdunck, the 
famous conductor, and there were, besides, 
many people for him to call upon and things 
for him to see. 

Half-way up Regent Street the voluptuous 
refrain smote him hip and thigh, Round 





7 m 



and round went the Professor, heed- 
less of the scandal he created 
amongst the pedestrians. u One — 
two—three — one — two — three. " A 
moment more the " Eureka " waltz 
would have taken shape, but Govern- 
ments and the minions of Govern- 
ments have no soul for art, and the 
Professor collided into the arms of 
a couple of stalwart policemen. Even 
then Tanzteufel, with an imperious 
movement j tried to convert it into 
a pas a tr&t's, but the soulless, in- 
exorable policemen insisted on its 
being a march. In despair the Pro- 
fessor endeavoured to compromise 
for at .least a fandango, and that is 
what it appeared to some of the 








edified spectators, and the crowd of loafers 
and small boys who followed the maestro 
to the Vine Street Police-Station. There 
the Professor complained with dignity. He 
produced his card and showed how he 
merely been seized by an inspiration. 

" Smell anything^ 'Awkes ? " asked 
inspector of the constable. 

The latter shook his head. 

l% Then the charge is dancing in public 
without a licence/' said the in spec tor , stolidly. 

u But/' tried the Professor, u I wasn't 
dancing. 1 was only trying one dance— one 
bee-utiful dance. An artiste— he cannot tell 
when the afflatus comes to him." 

" Well/' said the inspector, " you 11 tell 
when it comes to you next time. Luckily 
this s ap — happened at 10 a.m. If it had 
been p.m. — any way f you're discharged on 
the grounds of its being an attack of acute 

Professor Tanzteufel bowed his 
gratitude. He bowed as one seldom 
bows to an inspector in a London 
police-station, and even the inspec- 
tor's wink to the constable did not 
afford much relief to the embar- 
rassment of both* 

There was an omnibus going up 
Regent Street, and the Professor 
boarded it with agility and took a 
seat outside. He had not long been 
seated when, wonder of wonders, 
he remembered the missing move- 

But the Professor could not think 
in inaction. The moment was criti* 
cal. What if the miraculous phantasy 

should again escape ? Without an 
instant's hesitation he seized the 
shoulder of the stout, elderly gentle 
man beside him, and placed a hand 
on the back of the studious indivi- 
dual on the adjoining seat. So !— 
right foot forward — one — two -- ■ 
three — one — two — three. Now turn. 
Eureka! What? 

The inspired Viennese disciple of 
Terpsichore found himself suddenly 
punched in the ribs on one side, 
while an umbrella was jabbed 
violently into his leg on the other. 
In such circumstances the composi- 
tion of a new and original w^altz is 
difficult, if not impossible ; but when, 
amidst cries of derision and per- 
turbation, the conductor, hastily 
summoned, seized him round the 
middle and dragged him backward 
to the steps, the creative process came to a 

" You've spoilt rny waltz ! " cried the Pro 
lessor, still struggling. 

lk FH spoil ycr fice," rejoined the conduct or ? 
" if you don 7 t come off of it ! " 

Someone rang the bell, and the omnibus 
was at a standstill, 

" I will alight/ 1 said the Professor, re- 
signedly. " No violence, please. I did not 
intend the allegretto movement to commence 
until alter the -i\th bar." 

" Better chuck any more bars this morning, 
guv'nor/' bawled the conductor, giving the 
Professor a rush off the bottom step and the 
bell a vigorous pull. " Take my tip," 

It was Oxford Circus. For a moment the 
Professor stood there disconsolate and irre- 
solute. Then his natural cheerfulness and a 
policeman came to his rescue, the latter 






directing him to the Paddingtun Tube. It 
was a fatal step. It needed but that* There 
is something irresistible about the electric 
trains of the underground railways— irre- 
sistible to a musician, There is the rhythm 3 
there are the lights ; the swaying straps, and 
the swaying strap-hangers. As chance would 
have it, the carriage was crowded. Close to 
the Professor stood a pretty young lady with 
long- fringed eyelids and golden hair — h air 
that if let down would probably resemble an 
advertisement of "Capillino." The reflection 
sent the Professor off into an internal quest 
of his Walsgeisl. He was soon lost in a 
beautiful dream. And then came the strain 

*' Now or never ! " thought the Professor, 
taking the young lady's arm and clasping her 
gently but firmly about the waist. " One 
— t wo — three — one — two — three . No w t u m . " 

The next instant a fist shot out and struck 
the Professor in the eye. Ah, there is no 
love, no sympathy, no comprehension of art 
in England ! 

The Professor would will- 
ingly have explained , but 
the brutal bystanders, aided 
by an unfeeling guard, gave 
him no time for explanation. 
They hustled him off at the 
next station. 

" No matter," murmured 
the Professor, bathing his 
eye with a pocket-handker- 
chief. '* I would not mind 
martyrdom if I could cap- 
ture that waltz; only I am 
dreadfully absent-minded. 1 ' 

Still, if she had only heard the next stave 
of that beautiful creation she would not have 
minded. Ah, the beautiful unknown — she 
could have assisted him so much I No 
matter — he was inspired this day — some time 
or other he would be rewarded, 

Tanzteufel greeted two or three of his 
friends at the door of the church as one in a 
dream. He had now reached that stage 
when the ordinary happenings of life sink 
into insignificance. When one is threatened 
with the afflatus of the gods, what do the 
petty formalities of the world matter ? Any 
moment the lightning might come from 
Olympus. It was the last degree unfortunate 
that this was a funeral service, with the 
Austro-Hungarian Ambassador in a front 
pew, for half-way up the aisle what was 
subsequently described as a "regrettable 
occurrence ,s happened. The Professor was 
proceeding in stately fashion after the verger , 
when, without warning, the inspiration came* 
In vain he battled with it. He must not— he 
could not. Then a mist swam before his 
eyes, his right leg advanced briskly, and 

Fortunately, at the fifth bar, as he was 
turning , the Professor collided with a pew, 
and an acquaintance helped him into a seat 
before more than a dozen persons in the 
congregation had witnessed the performance. 
The Professor sat quite still, trying to collect 
his scattered thoughts. He realized now the 
narrowness of his escape ; but the shock had 
been sufficient— it would not happen again. 
He was safe, a!as 1 for the rest of the day. 
Solemnly the mourners , with stately step and 
slow, followed the mortal remains of poor 
Humperdunck to their last resting-place, 
What a moment for the Professor to think 
of the " Eureka " waltz — to be seized by the 
throes of composition ! He could not have 
helped it if he had been walking to his own 
death on the scaffold. " One— two— three — 
one— two — three . ' ' 

mis aislr a REc.yrttqJ^eA'focimitB.KNc^ happknejv 





However j they thought it was a ** seizure/ 7 
and hustled him into a taxicab, with instruc- 
tions to the driver to bear the Professor 
quickly away to the nearest infirmary. When 
they were out of sight the Professor put 
his head out of the window and saidj u Hyde 
Park," He would take a boat on the Ser- 
pentine and forget his art and his troubles. 
Vain hope ! The Professor was finally 
rescued by the officials of the Royal Humane 

That evening the Professor made a valiant 
attempt to recover the lost dream. He made 
it on the stair- 
case of the Em- 
bassy, with his 
host and hostess 
(it was a great 
official recep- 
tion) standing 
petrified with 
astonishment at 
the top. But, 
although the 
Professor bent, 
rose, turned, slid 
and cabrioled, 
and nearly broke 
his neck into the 
bargain, he was 
unable to re- 
cover any more 
than his balance, 
which nearly 
broke his heart. 
He did not dare 

and together, 
warbling, they 


to trust himself further. 
Sadly he executed a polte- 
face^ and glided away crest- 
fallen from the precincts 
of the Embassy. 

Alas ! even in the street 
and at midnight he was 
not safe from his obses- 
sion, for the glide sug- 
gested a bend, the bend 
involved a rise, the rise led 
to a leap, followed by a slide 

and then a turn, and 

A beautiful lady — beau* 
tiful as an houri or a 
prima donna in musical 
comedy — had allowed him 
to clasp her gloved hand, 
to the Professor's gentle 
danced gracefully up the 
luminous thoroughfare. Eureka!' It all came 
back to him as a delicious and soul-stirring 

Already he saw himself the hero of every 
theatre, of every drawing-room of Europe — 
rich and famous,, the author of the new 
dance— — 

(( You'd better come quietly,'* said the 
policeman, " Kicking won't do you any 
good. Steady, there — hold his legs ! M 
" Eureka I * cried the Professor. 

" You're an- 
other/* r e - 
joined the officer. 
stung by the un~ 
called - for alien 

That night 
the Professor, 
utterly exhaus- 
ted, slept in a 
police - station 
cell — slept 
sweetly, too — 
and in his 
slumbers the 
elusive measure 
came back to 
him, and he 
s m i led a nd 
said : — 

"1*11 remember 
that when I 

by Google 

Original from 


Illustrated by Gilbert Holiday. 

HE weary, thirsty, dusty regi- 
ment struggled painfully up 
the steep foothills of the 
Algerian mountains, in pur- 
suit of the most daring pre- 
datory band that had ever 
foiled the best men France 
could send against a foe. Robert, the 
Colonel, sat his stumbling horse as erect 
as ever, but even his iron strength felt 
the fatigue of the forced march. A poor, 
battered private soldier slipped on the rocks 
just ahead, and came sliding back right to 
the feet of the horse. The officer reined 
sharply, uttering a stern " Hey ! " 

Rising to his feet the soldier saluted, 
saying : — 

" Pardon, Colonel. This is not la .belle 

The line struggled on, but the Colonel's 
thoughts were far away. A little village in 
fair Provence ; the vines clustering round 
the cottage doors ; the young men and 
maidens gathering about the well ; the 
children playing gaily in the road. Away 
up on the hillside a handsome chateau. Out 
of a framing of flowering vines a clear-cut, 
aristocratic face surmounted by a white 
pompadour looked down upon him. 


The private soldier ha^i fallen again in the 
way. He was hardly able to stand. The 
Colonel glanced along the line., Men were 
dropping to the ground from sheer ex- 
haustion. It was no use. Human flesh 
could stand only so much. Camp was pitched 
for the night 

When all was in order, the sentries properly 
posted, and a few vedettes thrown out in the 
direction of the enemy, the Colonel entered 
his tent with a word to the guard to wake 
him in four hours. Then he fell across his 
pallet and slept the sleep of the dead. Just 
before the time elapsed shots were heard 

Digitized by v^OOQie 

on the mountain. The sentry entered the 
tent and shook the sleeping officer. 

Rising stiffly, the tired Colonel was soon in 
the saddle making a tour of the camp. Far 
up the gorge, where the vedettes had been 
posted, he came upon a soldier huddled 
against a rock, his gun lying by his side. 
An attending sergeant bent over and 
examined the prostrate man. 

11 Dead ? " queried the Colonel, hoarsely. 

"Asleep, Colonel," replied the sergeant, 
roughly shaking the unfortunate sentinel 

With a great effort the miserable man 
regained his feet A lantern held near 
revealed the lines of weariness in his face 
and the pallor of exhaustion. One faltering 
hand rose in salute. The iron Colonel spoke 
sharply : — 

" Jacques Rideau ? " 

"Jacques Rideau, Colonel." 

" Did you hear the shots ? " 

" Shots ? No, Colonel, I heard none." 

" Did you see the enemy pass yonder 
gorge ? " 

"No, Colonel." 

" What were you doing?" 

" I ? Mon Ditu ! Colonel, I was in 
Provence. *' I saw nothing, heard nothing 
but— but my mother's voice, as she looked 
out from, the Tine-clad cottage. I " 

" Under guard ! " commanded the Colonel, 
cutting off any further words. 


The court-martial was brief. The evidence 
was straightforward and conclusive. Jacques 
Rideau, a vedette on duty, was found asleep 
on his post. Taking advantage of his fault, 
the enemy had almost gained possession of a 
point from which a successful attack was 
comparatively easy. 

In defence there was only the prisoner's 
story. This was drawn out by persistent 
questioning, for the poor fellow appeared to 
have no hope, and no desire to battle for his 





life. He was tired ; yes, lie was so weary he 
had fallen twice right before the Colonel 
But he had slept two hours before being 
called to (;o on post. He remembered watch- 
ing the dim outlines of the hills and the 
fleecy clouds in the sky- Did he try to keep 
awake ? Certainly, He paced about. He 


held his gun at arm's length till it dropped. 
He pinched himself many times. He swung 
his arms about He remembered Jailing 
down beside the rock. He called on his 
pride to save him from disgrace. Yes, he 
did all that But it was no use. He lost all 
memory, tbiught,fBBm;ciousness. There was 




no valid excuse ; he knew, that wel|. He was 
very sorry to bring disgrace upon his uniform. 
He hoped the Court would believe himJ 
That was all he could say. > • , , 

The finding of the Court was "Guilty of 
sleeping on ppst in face of the, enemy." . The 
sentence was ".to be. shot at noon." 

The iron Colonel directed. the sergeant of 
the guard to do any favour possible for the 
prisoner. Then he went to his tent; and 
slept two hours, and partook of a meagre 
breakfast. While so engaged a bearer of 
despatches arrived and was at once conducted 
to the Colonel, to whom he delivered the 
precious packet. Among several official 
documents the Colonel found some private 
letters which, with stern devotion to duty, 
were left to the last. A smile" forced itself 
across his rugged features as he opened a 
letter directed to himself in a delicate hand 
— a letter from the aristocratic lady with the 
white pompadour away off in far Provence. 
As he read the lines softened in the strong 
face, and he found it necessary to clear his 
vision more than once. 

"Your mother is so proud of you, my dear, 
dear son. Many tipies I hear your name, 
always with honour and res'pect, frequently 
with admiration. A reaL soldier, like .hfe H 
father, they say. How it warms my r ojd 
heart!" * \ '-'-;' , 

The Colonel rose to his feet, stretched oiit< m 
his arms violently, and swallowed hard.* 
Then he walked to the door of \the - teiitj 1? 
turned, and sat down again, the letter itjr -1ii$ ; 
hand. « ... ■■ 

" It is good, my dear son, that you have 
no worry concerning me. My. competency 
is ample. Even if — if — I am only forcings 
myself to write it — you should notr.cottie back * 
to me— the good God forbid ! There is. 
nothing to think of. I have . money and 
friends, and a close relative or two, like dear 
little Anna. Ah ! I am sure, even the' 
Colonel, with his grand air, will smile at that 

11 Ah ! " 

The Colonel sighed sharply, then crushed 
the precious letter in his hand as the sergeant 
stood at the door. 

"What is it?" he demanded, rather 

" This letter, from the prisoner, Colonel." 

He took it mechanically, the sergeant 
standing rigidly at attention while he read it. 
It ran thus :— 

" Colonel, pardon, I mean not to intrude. 

by WOOglC 

I have no excuses to make. No,, not that. 
The law is hard, and bends for no man. But, 
Colonel, tjiere is one thuig. The sergeant 
said I could have anything reasonable. 
fylayt>e this is not reasonable.' , One can only 
tell ,by askings , , 

y When one is facing deatli tljere is no 
time for many things ; but, Colonel, it seems 
only a fctep" to beautiful Provence, and the 
little village where, pardon me, Colonel, we 
two were boys together ; you and I, The 
street by the well is not .long, but it seems, 
Colonel, as if it holds more beauty than any 
street on earth, eyeri in great Paris itself. 
There is the little school, where the big boys 
bullied me once, till a bigger boy, Mr. 
Robert, came and helped me beat them. 
There is the wide*** Brevard's store, where we 
used to. go fot tea and sugar] and, oh ! so 
many places that the heart remembers. 
. " The tiny cottage, Colonel, at the turn of 
the street ; the cottage with the yellow jasmine 
growing on the, porch, afld the flowers in the 
window in winter ; the cottage with the scrap 
of a garden behind it on the hill. And there, 
in the porch, her knitting in her hand, I see 
my mother. Pardon, pne, Colonel, but when 
I see her in my. mind's eye, then, then it 
does, seem hard that I rpyst die at noon. 
. ,." But I ask no different sentence. I know 
the discipline,must be as it is. But I think 
of my mother, Colonel, and it comes into my 
head, what, is ; $?e* thinking of her son just 
now?" -^ , 

.. The ,iron : Colpnql turned himself so as to 
present .hfe' back, to the sergeant, standing 
there stjffly,at attention. ~ Then^he read on. 
\ "There is just one thing,. Colonel, that I 
dare to ask. * Maybe it is impossible, but I 
will a$k it. .. Mother has a*little~cottage, and 
the jinjr garden, and a very ^rriall stipend 
that goes wi^h it. - She can live on it ; just 
Jive. Yet it is enough, and often ,jye thanked 
God together. that she would. not want if I 
fell in the wars. And when I remembered 
hpw, old and feeble . mother is becoming, 
there was always a warm place in my heart, 
for had she not enough? The tiny garden 
gives her food, and the cottage shelters her 
grey head from the storms, and the stipend 
pays the taxes, and a little over for the few 
things she needs. Thank God ! 

"But now, Colonel, the law is hard and 
bends for no man. All that came to me 
from my father's brother, whose name I bear. 
It all stands in my name. True, I made a 
will when I enlisted, and it is all for her, 
every sou for mother. That is well. But, 
Colonel, if I die for a crime, though it be a 


1 66 


military one, if I die thus, under the law my 
property reverts to the Government A 
felon, a criminal, cannot make a will \ he is 
nothing ; he is dead already when sentence is 
pronounced ; he can leave nothing, for he 
has nothing. And my mother t Moti Dku ! 
Colonel, my mother ! 

the mother that nursed him and cared for 
him, starving on the street, dying in some 
deserted place beside the cold, winter river. 
A man cannot stand up to that* It is too 

M If only it could be that my mother should 
write to me and say, 

son ; 



hard, hardest to the poor, 
has a little it takes away the 
has no heart ; no mercy, 
beggared ; an outcast from 
thrown into the street as the 
cold weather is coming on. Colonel, what is 
it to a man to stand up and be shot ? That 
is nothing. But to think of one's mother, 

"The law is 
From him that 
more. And it 
Mother will be 
her little home : 

worry, my 
I have i 
competence ; I have 
a warm home : I have 
friends ; there is 
Hortense to he with 
me. 1 Colon e5, do you 
not remember the 
rosy young Hortense 
at the well with her 
pail ? How sweet she 
was ! But she is dead 
these three years. 
That is why I en- 
listed, Colonel. I 
never told it before. 
Yes, that is why/' 

The erect figure of 
the Colonel swayed 
slightly where he 
stood. His left hand 
crumpled the other 
letter, the letter from 
the aristocratic lady 
with the white hair; 
the lady who had 
home, and money, 
and friends, even if 
he never went back 
to her alive and well. 
He swallowed hard 
again, and read on to 
the end. 

" There is just one 
way, Colonel, just 
oneway. If the enemy 
had shot me from 
behind the rocks, it 
would be well Mother 
would have the house, 
and the garden, and 
the stipend ; all 
her very own, to 
the end of her life. 
If I am executed at noon she has no- 
thing, nothing in the world. Mon Dim ! 
Colonel, if you love your mother, send me a 
revolver and a bottle of wine. Maybe it is 
no use to ask it, but with all my heart I ask, 
I could not help sleeping any more than I 
could help falling if shot in the heart; but I 
make no txruses. The discipline is strong. 




It must be, I know* And the law is hard, so 
hard it cannot bend for a poor man, Colonel, 
send me the revolver and the wine. If I die 
before noon I am no felon- The will holds. 
The house and garden are hers. Mother is 
provided for. It will be good, even in another 
world, for a man to remember he did all he 
could for his mother, who helped him so 
much when he was feeble* Aion Dieu I 
Colonel, help, this once ; not for me, but 
for my mother ! " 

The iron Colonel's hand trembled strangely 
as it picked up a revolver lying on the table. 
For an instant his keen grey eyes gazed 
piercingly at the weapon, as if measuring its 
powers and possibilities. Twice he turned 
it over, seeming to weigh it in his hand, 
pressing his lips firmly together and knitting 
his brows in deepest thought. Suddenly he 
took a decided step towards the subaltern, 
and partly extended his hand with the 
weapon. As he did so the other hand struck 
against a chair-back, and the letters fell to 
the floor. As he stooped and picked them 
up his eyes fell upon the words in the' first 

" Your mother is so proud of you, my dear, 
dear son." 

The Colonel laid the revolver on the table 
in its former position, twisted his moustache 
fiercely, and said, in a low, even tone, very 
different from his harsh voice of command, 
as he indicated the wine and glasses on a 
tray :— 

" Let him have two bottles-" 

Then, as the soldier stood gazing, as 
though he did not understand the order, 
the Colonel added a few short, sharp words, 
and pointed towards the tent which served 
as a guard - house. The silent sergeant 
saluted and went out with a grim smile upon 
his lips. 

A few minutes later the culprit started to 
his feet as the sergeant entered. His glance 
went instantly to the tray in the officers hand 
and his cheek paled. 

"The wine ! Ah ! But no 
Mon Dieu / help my poor little 

"Attention!" commanded the 
The soldier straightened and 
hand to his cap. His 
Did he hear aright? 

4i Colonel Robert orders that you report 
for duty in half an hour. Also, that you first 
write a letter to your mother ! " 


mother ! " 


put his 

senses were reeling. 

The sergeant was 



Readers of the interesting 
article published last month under 
the title of " LIP-READING F will 
remember that we left two examples 
without solutions, in order that 
they might test their ability in 
the art of Judith Lee. These 
examples are herewith repro- 
duced, together with the words 
in question. 

We take this opportunity of announcing that the first six Judith Lee 
stories have excited such widespread interest that we have arranged for 
a further series of six, which will commence next month. Mr. Richard 
Marsh writes to us as follows : "In these new stories, Judith Lee, developing 
with age and experience, deals with men and matters in a wider field 
and on bolder tines." Certainly the next story, entitled " ISOLDA/' is 
the most exciting adventure of Judith Lee that has yet appeared. 

The word her* is * l Fuchsia." 


Songs of the Great Schools. 


UGBY naturally suggests to 
many Dr. Arnold and the 
halcyon days — now nearly 
three-quarters of a century 
back — of " Tom Brown." 
But the songs that young 
hero sang — if he sang any 
at all — were not those chanted by the present 
generation of Rugbeians. In " Dr. Birch 
and His Young Friends " (1849) Thackeray 
describes a school bully summoning a little 
boy from his bed on a cold winter's night 
with : — 

" Now, sir, are not you the boy what can 
sing ? " 
" Yes, Hewlett." 

" Chaunt, then, till I go to sleep ; and if I 
wake when you stop you'll have this at your 

On this occasion the shivering' little victim 
selected " Home, Sweet Home,"-- feut'- any 
song at all would do when both \songS and 
singing were a luxury. After a time it was_ 
felt — chiefly at reunions of Rugbeians — that 
Rugby ought to have a song of its own. 
Several songs were tried, but without success- 
— although one in praise of football enjoyed 
a good deal of popularity. Then canJe* along 
Moberly and " Floreat Rugbeia." For along 
time it was anonymous, and Temple,- the 
head master (afterwards Archbishop .* v of 
Canterbury), for some reason or other ^wished 
it to remain anonymous. 

" In the early days," writes an Old Boy", 
" after the ' Floreat ' was sung (as it was at 
every concert), there was always a cry for 
1 Moberly.' At first he used to get up and 
bow in recognition of the honour of being 
called for. Then the school cheered, and 
now and then they would call for a repetition 
of the song, followed by a second calL^nd a 
second repetition, with further cheers.,.for 
' Moberly.' This procedure, at' first' natural 
and complimentary, became* a^few- ahd a 
joke, and finally a nuisance.- ;-T-henrTemple ; 
(who always knew what to do and when to 
interfere) got up and said, in his harshest and" 
most effective tone : ' This must-NOT*' (pro- 
nounced nat) go on ; you're jgettihg rude ! \ 
And that, of course, was the end oij it. „ 

" I have a hazy memory that once or twice 
the Old Rugbeians tried to revive the cry for 


Moberly, but the school knew better than to 
take it up. And even the rowdiest and 
obtusest Old Rugbeians (and both of these 
kinds at first used to attend concerts) soon 
discovered that it was an up-hill job to get 
the better of ' F. T./ and order was restored 
for good." 

The composer's son, Mr. W. O. Moberly, 
writes us with reference to the song : — 

" I remember it coming into shape on the 
piano, but I cannot say how it came to be 
written. To write an acceptable school song 
appears to require a special combination of 
scholarship, music, and sympathy with boys. 
All these my father had, and his song seems 
to have become a valued possession of the 

The deeply-lamented author of the Hailey- 
bury School song, the Rev. A. J. Butler, was 
a famous i Rugby boy, and once head of the 
Rugby eleven. Perhaps nothing better shows 
the "fellowship which exists between all the 
great public schools than that the leading lights 
of" each school should, as a rule, owe first 
allegiance to a rival seminary. Haileybury's 
historic association with old " John Company " 
- is *ell known, and it is to this that the second 
' stanza probably refers. 
• r 1 Carmen Rossalliense," written by W. W. 
Walker,jand composed by Dr. C. H. Lloyd, 
when they were both boys at Rossall, is, 
perhaps, the official song of Rossall, and 
is a capital specimen of a Latin school 

" N The following translation of the first stanza 
^is by the Rev. W. A. Osborne : — 

Children of the billowy ocean, 
. Let us sing with deep emotion, 

" Rossall, life and fame to thee ! 
_ . , .From thy founts of sacred learning, 

Let us drink with thirst returning, 

All our hearts with wishes burning. 
: • Rossall, love and fame to thee I 

' * Yet the later English " Song of Rossall," by 
-Dr. *J-ames (ex-head master) and Dr. Sweet- 
; ifig, .is just as characteristic and popular. 

• To hear. Rossall. boys sing these verses 
, is to review once more the spectacle of 
several hundred "upstanding, manly English 
lads in whom the traditions of an English 
school — loyalty, honour, fair-play — arcbeing 
implanted and will in time bear fruit in 
honourable English lives. 





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W*reVVy ft.GBvTLE« 


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! yet once rrK>re. wrfk louder ch 

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Vol. xliiL-fe 

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Algy and His Fatter, 


Illustrated by Lawson Wood. 


CANT find words in which 
to express my opinion of 
your scandalous beha- 
viour ! " 

Mr. Bolover glared fero- 
ciously at his son. Algy — 
his friends had not nick- 
named him " The Cucumber " for nothing — 
glanced at the clock. 

" Oh, come, father ; I think you under- 
rate your powers of expression/' he remarked, 
encouragingly. " Seeing that this interview 
has now lasted for nearly an hour, and you 
have been soliloquizing about my iniquities 

practically all the time " 

" Silence ! " commanded Mr. Bolover, thun- 
derously. " I forbid you to treat this painful 
subject in a spirit of insolent levity. You 
don't seem to realize what you have done. 
Here have I been spending something like 
a thousand pounds a year so that you might 
enjoy the advantages of a University educa- 
tion — and how do you show your apprecia- 
tion? Why, you get expelled ! "—Mr. 
Bolover's voice rose to a reverberant bellow 
— " expelled, you ungrateful young cub, 
before you have been in the place eighteen 
months ! " 
Algy blinked, and thought a moment. 
" Then, so far as I can make out, father," 
he said, in a sudden burst of inspiration, " I've 
saved you a matter of about fifteen hundred 
quid. Probably more, indeed. I doubt 
greatly whether I should have taken any sort 
of degree under about four years." 

It may have been gratitude for this piece 
of thoughtfulness on the part of his son which 
overcame Mr. Bolover, or it may not. It 
was some time before he could trust himself 
once more to speak. 

" I suppose you're proud," he asked, with 
biting scorn, " of having been the central 
figure in what the Times describes as a 
piece of wanton and undignified buffoonery ? " 
Mr. Bolover's voice shook with indignation 
as he quoted the burning words. The esca- 
pade which led the University authorities to 
the conclusion that they could dispense with 
Algy's presence in their midst had been on a 

scale which called for notice, even in the least 
frivolous of newspapers. 

" Rats to the old Times ! " was Algy's blithe 
commentary. " Never you mind if the 
papers have gone for me a bit. I don't care. 
You kiss yourself to sleep, father, with the 
pleasant thought that this rag of mine has 
given Bolover's Shilling Sherry a lift-up such 
as it hasn't had since the day it was invented. 
Everyone knows I'm the son of the Shilling 
Sherry man ; and everyone's talking about 
me. I've done the business no end of good. 
And remember — the family Sherry is a wine 
that emphatically does need a bush. What 
more do you want ? " 

To judge by his appearance, what Mr. 
Bolover wanted more than anything else at 
the moment was the immediate attention of 
a physician who specialized in fits. 

Algy, in his anxiety to make a point in his 
own favour, had struck an unlucky chord. 
Mr. Bolover had reached a point in his career 
at which he was anxious to sink, as far as 
possible, the identity of the purveyor of Shil- 
ling Sherry in that of Thomas Bolover, Esq., 
country gentleman. To that end he had up- 
rooted the family tent from the North London 
suburb in which his early successful cam- 
paigns against the health of the British public 
had been conducted, and had pitched it in 
the heart of one of the most exclusive counties 
in England. At first the local nobility and 
gentry had shown themselves a little shy ; 
but they were coming round nicely. The 
best people were beginning to take Mr. 
Bolover up. Indeed, he had been selected 
as one of the candidates at the next election ; 
and there seemed every prospect of his 
being able, at no distant date, to write M.P. 
after his name. 

At such a juncture it was no part of Mr. 
Bolover's policy to lay undue stress upon his 
connection with the famous Shilling Sherry. 

" There — that will do," he said, brusquely, 
to his son. " Evidently it is impossible to 
make you appreciate the enormity of your 
conduct. What I should like you to tell me 
is — what do you oropose to do ? " 

••Dor' AteyWW^^erwiU,. 



puzzled expression. " 1 don't follow you, 
father. I don't quite see what I can do." 5 

il Indeed ! " There was a steely note in 
Mr, Bolover's voice. " Then may I ask how* 
you propose to live ? " 

** Oh, I see ! " A smile of perfect compre- 
hension came over Algy's face, " Well— 
that^ will depend very much on what allow- 
ance you propose to make me, won't it ? Jy 

" Allowance ! " For some moments Mr, 
Bolover regarded his son in quivering silence. 
Then he uttered a short, mirthless laugh. 

u So you expect me to keep you in idleness, 
do you ? You really imagine I have no better 
use for the money I have sweated and " 

kicking about the world. Fm not going to 
be responsible for an addition to their num- 
bers. You've got to work for your living, 
my young friend," 

st I should like to> enormously/' replied 
Algy, imperturbably ; "but Im afraid I 
shall scarcely have the time. You see, I want 
to get married." 

Mr, Bolover, with a mighty effort 7 sup- 
pressed his emotion. 

11 Really ? " he sneered. u So you want 
to get married ? do you? And may I inquire 
the name of the lady who has been so fortu- 
nate as to secure your affection ? n 

" The lady who has done me the honour 

I'VE had enouoh of this!' he shouted, anorily. 'i*m not going to bandy words 


iL Oh, I say ! Draw it mild, father t n 
Algy had to protest. 4£ You really can't 
make out that the process of snipping off 
dividend-coupons induces any very profuse 
perspiration t you know." 

Mr; Bolover leapt up from his chair. 

44 Fve had enough of this ! " he shouted, 
angrily, li Fm not going to bandy words 
with you any longer. Understand me clearly. 
There are quite enough useless young loafers 

to overlook my many defects and general 
uselessnesa/' answered Algy, quietly, * € is 
Violet Graham ? the Vancouvers' governess." 

" A governess ! " 

Ineffable was the contempt with which Mr. 
Bolover managed to infuse his pronunciation 
of the word. 

For the first time since the commencement 
of their interview the placid Algy began to 
show p some slight symptoms of irritation. 




11 If there is one thing that gives me the 
unutterable, irremovable pip," he remarked, 
acidly, " it is the attitude taken by the 
bourgeoisie of this country towards the persons 
whom they entrust with the upbringing of 
their children." 

" How dare you lecture me, sir ! " howled 
Mr. Bolover, white with fury. 

" I dared to lecture you," replied Algy, 
looking his father steadily in the eye, " because 
you saw fit to allude contemptuously to a 
lady whom you know perfectly well to be our 
superior in birth, breeding, attainments, and 
every other possible quality. Violet's poor, 
I know ; but that's one of the drawbacks 
of being brought up honest " 

Mr. Bolover pointed furiously to the door. 

11 Leave my house this instant ! " he com- 
manded ; " and never show your face here 
again ! " 

" I absolutely decline to do anything so 
melodramatic," was Algy's answer, as he 
settled down comfortably in his chair and 
proceeded to fill a pipe. " Besides, it's not 
snowing, anyway. Prodigals never leave 
home on fine summer evenings." 

" Am I to have you thrown out ? " 

Algy smiled. As he knew that he would 
certainly have got his half-blue for the heavy- 
weights but for his unfortunate disagreement 
with the University authorities, his father's 
suggestion struck him as amusing. 

" Don't forget that the Employers' Liability 
Act extends its operations to male domestic 
servants," he pointed out, in a gentle tone. 
" Now, father, sit down, and let's talk this 
over quietly." 

Mr. Bolover glared in impotent fury. 

" I will not talk anything over quietly 
with you ! " he burst out, after a moment or 
two of strangled silence. Controlling his 
emotion with a fine effort, he came over and 
stood before his son's chair. 

" Now listen to me," he said, wagging an 
uplifted forefinger to give emphasis to his 
remarks. " You don't deserve it ; but I'll 
give you the same chance in life that my father 
gave me. That is to say, I will hand you 
over the sum of two hundred and fifty pounds. 
That's what my father started me with. I 
never had another penny from him. You 
shall have the same. If you're so anxious to 
marry this precious Miss Graham of yours, 
you can buckle-to, and make a fortune out 
of it— as I did." 

" Yes, but that would take time," objected 
Algy ; " and I want to marry Violet at once." 

A snort was the only reply vouchsafed. 

" Come, father," pleaded Algy, dropping 

his tone of impudent banter for one of earnest 
entreaty. " Be decent about this. Think 
what it must be to be governess in a family 
like the Vancouvers — snubbed by odious old 
Mother Van, cheeked by the servants, patron- 
ized by the father — oh, dash it ! You 
wouldn't have the heart to condemn a darling 
like Violet to another four or five years of 
that dog's life, would you ? If you'll only 
put me into a position to marry her at once, 
I promise I'll work like a nigger at anything 
you choose to put me to. I'm not asking for 
the earth, you know. I'm sure we could rub 
along on a modest five or six hundred a year. 
You won't miss that." 

" You are quite right — I shall not miss it," 
was Mr. Bolover's sarcastic rejoinder. " I 
have not the slightest intention of turning 
myself into an institution for the relief of 
distressed governesses. If you want a modest 
five or six hundred a year to support Miss 
Graham on, you can go and earn it." 

" And yet you chucked out hints about 
allowing me two thou a year, when you 
thought it was Amy Vancouver I -was after," 
recalled Algy, with a tinge of bitterness. 

" Miss Vancouver is a girl in our own 

" You mean the position into which you are 
trying to shove us." 

Mr. Bolover thought it time to bring this 
unprofitable interview to an end. 

" To-morrow morning," he said, frigidly, 
as he made his way to the door, " I will write 
you out a cheque for two hundred and fifty 
pounds. You can take it or leave it ; but 
whichever you do, you leave my house." 

The next morning Algy, with the cheque 
in his pocket, left The Towers. 

It was Mrs. Magsby, the Bolovers' stern- 
faced housekeeper, who, a week later, brought 
back the dreadful news. Mr. and Mrs. 
Bolover were lingering over the dessert, Mr. 
Bolover cracking nuts in gloomy silence 
while his wife sat opposite to him, snuffling. 
Twice during dinner she had expressed a 
disturbed doubt as to what had become of 
darling Algy ; and her husband's responses 
to her speculations had not been encouraging. 

" What is it, Magsby ? " demanded Mr. 
Bolover, sharply, to the housekeeper. 

" If you please, sir," replied Mrs. Magsby, 
with the air of suppressed delight peculiar 
to her class on the occasions when they are 
privileged to communicate bad news ; " I 
felt it my duty to come at once and inform 
you that I think Mr. Algernon is very ill." 

A cry of maternal distress broke from 
Mrs. Bolover. 




" Oh j where is he, Magsby ? " she wailed. 
u What is the matter ? Is there any hope ? SJ 

"That I can't say ; mem/' replied Magsby, 
vexed that she was not in a position to prophesy 
the worst ; li and I don't mean by ill that 
Mr, Algernon is ill in his 
body, mem. It's his mindj 
1 think. He's standing out- 
side Peckwold's shop, in a 
butcher's apron, shouting 
out, i Buy ! buy ! buy ! ' 
until you could hear him 
up at the hall almost." 
The idea that Algernon's 
vociferous ribaldry might 
perchance disturb the hall's 
occupants evidently caused 
Mrs, Magsby no small per- 
turbation* "All the common 
village folk is standing out- 
side in a crowd , mem," she 
went on, gloomily ; " and 
there's Mr, Algernon a -call- 
ing to them to come and 
have a nice cut off the fore- 
quarter and such-like. Oh, 
it's awful ! I thought it 
my bounden duty to let 
you know at once." 

lt That will do, Magsby/' 
commanded Mr. Bolover, 
in awful tones. " You 
can go," 

When Mrs, Magsby had 
bridled her way out of the 
room, Mrs, Bolover turned 
a look of terrified inquiry 
upon her husband. " What 
does it mean ? " she 
snivelled. " The poor boy 
must have lost his reason f 
Your harsh treatment has 
driven him to t h i s , 
Thomas ! " 

" It means," snorted 
Mr. Bolover, " that we are 
having another example 
of your son's perverted 
ideas of humour/ 5 

It was Mr. Bolovcr's habit, when his children 
annoyed him, to cast the whole responsibility 
of their being upon their hapless mother. On 
the rare occasions, however, when they pleased 
him, he would allude to them as '* my boy " 
or ( * that little girl of mine/* as if they had 
been his exclusive product. 

(A I am going down to the village/* he 
announced, darkly, as he rose from the table. 

Mr. Bolover found that his housekeeper had 
not exaggerated the facts- Round the front 
of Peck wold's frowsy little shop the entire 
population of the village seemed to be 
gathered. As Mr. Bolover drew near he 




s vulgar buffoonery must end at 


could hear, high above the hoarse guffaws 
of the yokels , his son's voice exhorting them 
to " Buy ! buy ! JS in the nauseous nasal twang 
of the suburban butcher on a busy Saturday 

So intent were the villagers upon an 
entertainment which they evidently found 
enormously to their liking that for some time 
Mr. Holover's presence in their midst passed 
unobser^hdginal from 




The scene almost made Mr. Bolover's 
blood run cpld as he watched it, fascinated 
by its revolting details. There, in the glare 
of a flaring naphtha -lamp, stood his son, red 
in the face with shouting and the exertion of 
lifting joints of beef and mutton into the 
foreground, where their beauties might be the 
better beheld by likely purchasers. Algy was 
in his shirt-sleeves, girt about by a vast, 
greasy butcher's apron. In one hand he held 
a long knife, in the other a steel. From time 
to time he would rattle these implements one 
against the other, as an accompaniment to 
his monotonous chant of " Buy ! buy ! " and 
his nasal eulogies of this beautiful piece of 
pickled pork or yonder amazing neck of 
mutton — only fippence per pound. " Oh, 
mother, look ! " Algy would cry, pointing 
with the steel to some portion of meat which 
had failed to find popular favour. " Are you 
mad, that you allow such a bargain as that 
to go by ? " 

The crowd roared. Never before had 
Saturday night's marketing been made so 
amusing as this. 

At last, when Algy wrapped up two hideous 
kidneys in a piece of paper and handed them 
to a giggling matron with the cheery remark, 
i4 Those'll go well with your old man's tea, 
ma," flesh and blood could endure no more. 
Mr. Bolover pushed his way to the front of 
the crowd. 

44 And what can I do for you, sir ? " inquired 
Algy, pleasantly, without allowing the faintest 
sign of recognition to escape him. " Pork is 
very good to-night. I can recommend pork. 
How's that for a fine fore-quarter ? " He 
gave a portion of defunct pig a resounding 
slap. 4 * A pretty piece of hog that, sir." 

At this the crowd set up an unrestrained 
shout. Mr. Bolover turned upon them with 
a glare of ferocity that made even the stoutest 
quail. But they stood their ground, never- 
theless. Things were going to happen — they 
could see that. They did not mean to miss 
any of the fun if they could help it. 

44 Algernon," said Mr. Bolover, turning 
again to his son and speaking in a low, broken 
voice, " if you have the slightest regard for 
your father's feelings, you will cease to hold 
him up to the ridicule of these people." 

44 Oh, well, if you put it like that, I suppose 
you leave me no choice," answered Algy, 
grudgingly. 44 But you're spoiling a splendid 
evening's business." 

He retired into the interior of the shop, 
and presently emerged, tottering under the 
weight of shutters, which he ipxieeded to 
put into Position^.^^ by G 00 g[ e 

" Stop ! " cried his father, impatiently. 
44 Peckwold can see to that." 

44 Peckwold ? " Algy paused, panting. 
44 Peckwold's got nothing to do with this 
place now. I'm the proprietor. I bought 
the business from him yesterday." 

Mr. Bolover's eyes bulged. 

44 You've bought the business ? " he gasped. 
44 How much did you give for it ? " 

44 Two hundred." 

Algy fixed the last shutter into its place, 
and then,. holding the shop-door open, invited 
his father to enter. 

Mr. Bolover was not sorry to get away from 
that circle of inquisitive eyes outside. 

44 And now, sir," he began, sternly, when 
they had attained the security of the back 
parlour, 44 be good enough to explain to me 
the meaning of your behaviour." 

44 Meaning of my behaviour ? " replied 
Algy, pausing in the operation of filling his 
pipe. 44 Surely it's quite obvious ? You told 
me I'd got to earn my living, and I'm trying 
to do it ; that's all." 

44 Could you find no vocation more gentle- 
manly than that of a butcher ? " 

44 It does not seem to me," observed Algy, 
dryly, 44 that there is anything less gentle- 
manly in selling good meat than in selling 
— ahem ! — wine." 

44 1 won't have it, I tell you ! Once and 
for all, I refuse to permit it ! " blustered Mr. 
Bolover. " Understand me clearly, you leave 
this place to-morrow." 

Algy shook his head, gently but firmly. 

44 I hate to thwart your slightest whim, 
father," he said ; 4< but you are asking too 
much. I'm on a good thing here. Judging 
by the business I've done to-day, this shop 
ought to be a little gold-mine. You've no 
idea what appetites the people about here have 
got. And when I get the big people's custom 
— they all deal at the Stores now, but I'm 
going out on a personal canvass next week — 
why, I shall simply coin money. The Van- 
couver, for instance, ought to be worth a 
clear two hundred a yeai to me alone." 

Mr. Bolover gazed in horror at his son. 

44 You young scoundrel ! " he burst out. 
44 You're trying to ruin me. You know per- 
fectly well that none of these village louts 
will ever respect me again. You know what 
snobs they are. Who's going to vote for the 
father of the local butcher ? " 

44 Who, indeed ? " agreed Algy, with mad- 
dening indifference. 

" Haven't you a spark of gratitude for all 
I have done for you in the past ? " snivelled 
Mr, Bolover, almost weeping as he contem- 




plated the prospective wreck of his social 
ambitions, %c When you know how I have 
worked to establish your mother and all of 

you in a really decent position, I do think " 

" That's just it, father/' interrupted Algy, 

" But I'll tell you what If you'll give me 
your custom FU let you have your meat at 
cost price." 

Mr. Bolover heaved, 

" Algernon, I appeal to you as a son — and 


quickly, t( I know- what a lot you must have 
spent on us. That's why I don't want to be 
a burden upon you any more. Indeed, I 
want to try and make some return to you." 

£ ' You can. Give up this butchering non- 

" I can't do that, father," said Algy, firmlv. 

Diqilized by VjOOv IC 

as a gentleman — to spare me the humiliation 
tQ which your persistence in this conduct will 
subject me ! " he entreated* 

" Father ! " Algy caught admirably the 
other's melodramatic note. "I appeal to 
you as a parent — and as a man who has a 
great deal more money than he has any real 
use for — to allow me enough to marry Violet 
Graham ! " 

14 A miserable governess I " snorted Mr. 

" All governesses are more or less miser- 
able, I'm afraid/' sighed Algy, " I want to 
try and make one of them happy if I can." 

Mr. Bolover decided to go off on another 
tack. Original from 



" But do you mean to tell me, Algernon," 
he said, with an artful affectation of pained 
surprise, " that you would be content to have 
yourself and your wife dependent upon me 
for every penny ? Would you be satisfied 
not to have a farthing except what I chose to 
allow you ? " 

Algy looked quickly at his father. 

" By Jove ! he exclaimed. " You're 
quite right. Of course, it would be unmanly 
and degrading in the extreme. A fellow 
must- be independent, I must stick to my 
butchering, I sec ; and— er — carve out a 
fortune for mvself." 

" No, no, my dear boy ; you misunder- 
stand me;" said Mr. Bolover, hastily, realiz- 
ing that he had made a false step. "All I 
meant was, that a married man ought not to 
be dependent upon his father. Your bachelor 
allowance — if you will ohly be reasonable and 
do as I wish— I shall be only too happy to 

" It's very kind of you," answered Algy, 
in a voice which shook with what his father 
fondly imagined to be manly emotion, " but 
I couldn't take advantage of your generosity. 
And, to be frank, now that I have tasted the 
sweets of independence, I find them better 
flavoured than the bread of idleness. I'm 
sure it's not a good thing to be dependent on 
another for every penny. that you spend." 

" But a father ? " urged Mr. Bolover, now 
thoroughly alarmed. " Surely there is no 
degradation in being dependent on a 
father ? And perhaps I haven't been so 
generous with you in the past as I might have 
been. Look here : I'll make up your allow- 
ance to three hundred and fifty pounds a year 
if you'll only listen to reason, Algy boy." 

Algy boy shook his head. 

" I'm sorry, father, but I cannot accept 
an allowance from you. I'll tell you what 
I'll do, though," he said, struck suddenly by 
a brilliant idea. " As you seem so anxious 
lor me to give up this business " 

" Yes, yes ! What ? " asked Mr. Bolover, 
eagerly, as his son paused. 

" I'll sell you the business. Then I sha'n't 
feel under any obligation to you." 

41 I'll buy it! I'll buy it!' cried Mr. 
Bolover. " Anything you like, so long as 
you will stop making me a laughing-stock to 
the people about here." 

" I shall want a fair price, mind you," Algy 
warned him. 

11 We sha'n't quarrel about the price, my 

boy," said Mr. Bolover, cheerily, as he patted 
his son's shoulder. " You can't think how 
glad I am that you're going to behave like a 
good, sensible lad. We sha'n't quarrel over 
the price. No fear of that." 

" Thai's all right then," said Algy. " You 
may as well hear my terms, though. You 
can have th«s butcher's shop, stock, and good- 
will, in exchange for five thousand preference 
shares in Bolover's, Limited." 

Mr. Bolover's jaw dropped. He gazed at 
his son wildly, as though incredulous that he 
could have heard aright. 

" Did you say five thousand ? " he gasped. 
'! You mean five hundred, Itake it ? " 

" Oh, no, I don't," replied Algy, very 
positively. " I mean five thousand. They 
pay ten per cent., I believe. That ought to 
bring me in about five hundred a year." 

" But, my dear boy ! " expostulated Mr. 
Bolover. " You surely don't expect me to 
give you five thousand preference shares for 
a wretched little butcher's business that you 
told me yourself you only paid two hundred 
pounds for ? " 

" Those are my terms," replied Algy, with 
a shrug oi the shoulders. 

" Piratical — that's the only word for 
them ! " spluttered Mr. Bolover. 

Algy smiled. 

" I'll give you till the morning to think it 
over," he said. " I shall be here all the morn- 
ing to-morrow, if you want me." 

He held out his hand to his father ; but 
Mr. Bolover, muttering quotations from 
" King Lear," tottered out of the shop with- 
out any sign of farewell. 

Before he was half-way home, however, 
he turned and made his way back again. 

Algy, when he opened the door in response 
to his father's tap, had on his overcoat and 

" I thought as much," he said, with a slight 
smile. "Want me to come home now — or 
shall I wait till the morning ? " 

Mr. Bolover could not trust himself to 
speak. He pointed silently up the road 
towards The Towers. 

As they came into the light of the lamp 
which hung over the lodge-gate Mr. Bolover 
noticed that Algy was carrying a nasty-look- 
ing parcel, wrapped up in newspaper, under 
his arm. 

" What's that you've got there ? " asked 
Mr. Bolover, querulously. 

" Only a joint of veal," said Algy, simply* 

by Google 

Original from 


The Greatest Court in tke World. 

Illustrated \>y W. E. Wigfull. 

HERE is the Citadel of 
Empire ? Where is the sanc- 
tum sanctorum of Britannia 
herself ? Not one citizen in 
a hundred, perhaps, would 
guess it. After you have left 
the pomp and glitter of the 
palace, the state and consequence of Parlia- 
ment, the headquarters of the Navy and the 
Army, the significant dwelling-place of the 
British Prime Minister, if you would seek the 
inner shrine of Empire you must climb a pair 
of stairs in a narrow street off Whitehall, 
cross a threshold, push aside a pair of red- 
baize curtains, and find yourself in — not a 
scene of imposing splendour; far from it — 
but, nevertheless, in the greatest Court in the 

There is no human tribunal to approach 
this one in greatness. All other human 
Courts are petty in comparison. The Supreme 
Court of America proudly claims that it is 
the final Court of Appeal for nearly one hun- 
dred millions of people. This Court that you 
have entered possesses jurisdiction over 
four hundred and fifty millions. Yet never 
did greatness so ape humility. The bare, 
panelled room ; the arresting, almost dis- 
concerting silence ; the unrobed figures at 
the two tables behind the barrier — who 
would dream that it was here that Britannia 
was seated on her throne, balancing the scales 
of justice amongst White and Black, Hindu, 
Mohammedan, and Buddhist — from the 
Channel Islands to Hong-Kong, and from 
Johannesburg to Hudson's Bay ? It was 
Fitzjames Stephen who spoke of Mr. " Mother 
Country " going about riding on the knife- 
board of a Westminster omnibus. The 
dread figure of Britannia is here represented 
by two elderly Scotsmen, an Irishman, an 
Englishman, and a Cape Boer — the Master 
Jurists of the Empire. Before them a 
Canadian barrister, assisted by an Australian 
junior and instructed by a London solicitor, 
may be arguing a Shanghai appeal case. In 
the Court, as spectators, are two Hindus, 
three or four Chinamen, a Sierra Leone negro, 
and a sprinkling of Englishmen, Scotsmen, 
Irishmen, Welshmen — all lieges of His Majesty 
the King-Emperor, of whose Privy Council 
^this " dowdy Court in Downing Street," a^ 

it was once unjustly called, forms a principal 

If this Court — the Judicial Committee of 
the Privy Council, for so runs its prosaic title 
— is not outwardly romantic, its history and 
its very entity'are of the essence of romance. 

On one occasion, in a remote part of India, 
Hindus and Mohammedans had gone to law. 
after a great deal of turbulent ill-feeling on 
both sides. After being tried in the local 
Courts, the case was carried to the Supreme 
Court at Calcutta, which declared for the 
Hindus. Messengers flew through the 
villages with tidings of the decision, and there 
was great rejoicing — on the part of the Hindu 
population. The matter was supposed to 
be settled, until, at a meeting of Mohamme- 
dans, a holy dervish said : " Friends, there 
is still a great Power to whom we can appeal 
for justice." 

" Do you mean Allah ? " asked the head- 
man of the village. 

" No," said the priest. " Not Allah, but 
a great instrument of Allah on earth." 

" If you mean the Kaisar-i-Hind, he will 
not hear us. He is too much surrounded by 
courtiers and favourites/' 

" my people, the Kaisar-i-Hind is great, 
but I tell you he is a child in the hands of this 
mighty Power. His name is Judish-al- 
Komiti. The lawyer at Calcutta has advised 
us to appeal to him, and if we do we will 
obtain true justice and defeat our enemies." 

" Hail Judish-al-Komiti ! " cried the popu- 
lace. " We will send our lawyers to him and 
prostrate ourselves at his feet. Where is 
this god to be found ? " 

" In London/ ' answered the dervish. " He 
is very holy and austere, and lives in a small 
house near the palace of the Imperial Mogul, 
but his wisdom is that of Solomon himself, 
and what he says is listened to by the Kaisar- 
i-Hind in trembling, and what he wills is 

done '" 

Amidst great enthusiasm it was agreed to 

carry the Mohammedan case to this redoubt- 
able Judish-al-Komiti. On hearing of all 
this, the Hindu population was much 
amused, and scoffed at the simplicity of 
their opponents. 

" Foolish ones ! " they cried. " Don't you 
know that there is no greater Court than the 








Supreme Court at Calcutta, which is the 
Court established by the Emperor ? If you 
had audience of the Emperor he would only 
say, ' These are my judges, whom I pay to 
administer justice. What they do, they do 
in my name.' As for your new god — your 
Judish-al-Komiti — who ever heard of such a 
being ? You deceive yourselves and waste 
your substance amongst the lawyers.' ' 

Three months later the case came before 
the Privy Council, which reversed the decision 
of the Supreme Court and found for the 
Mohammedans. The cable sent to Calcutta 
was wired to the chief town of the province, 
and from thence to the district and the 
villages of the district. That night the 
Assistant Commissioner of Baghadri, startled 
to see several bonfires being lit on the sur- 
rounding hill-tops, hastened to make inquiries. 

" What is the meanirtg of this ? " he 
demanded, breathlessly, of an adjacent 

" O sahib, the people are lighting fires 
in honour of the new god, whom they say 
rules the Emperor — Judish-al-Komiti." 

The right of appeal from all British posses- 
sions to the King in Council is like the appeal 
from the Roman provinces to Caesar. As 
the Empire expanded a permanent Court to 
advise the King became necessary, and so the 
Judicial Committee was formed in 1833. 

There are about seventeen members from 
which the Committee is drawn, but the quorum 
is as low as three, at least one of the Lords of 
Appeal being usually present. In the case 
of appeals from the Ecclesiastical Courts, 
ecclesiastical assessors are called in, and so 
also the aid of naval assessors may be obtained 
for Admiralty appeals. 

Before 1898 the manner of procedure beiore 
the Committee was not so fixed as it now is. 
The set of rules then drawn up resembles in 
some respects those governing appeals to the 
House of Lords. 

After the case has been heard in private the 
Court is cleared and the Committee discuss 
their decision, which is read by one of the 
members in the form of a report and advice to 
the King, who then gives effect to the judgment 
by making an Order in Council, dismissing or 
allowing the appeal. All these proceedings 
are strictly private, and no indication is given 
as to whether the decision is unanimous or 
only the verdict of a majority. 

The jurisdiction of this, tribunal covers the 
enormous area of some eleven million square 
miles. When it is remembered that Gibbon 
estimates the total area of the Roman Empire 
at the height of its power as only one million 

six hundred thousand square miles, some idea 
is obtained of the importance of the Committee 
and the variety of the cases which come before 
it. The subjects with which it has to deal are 
as varied as the races of our Empire, and may 
range from a dispute over the dedication of 
property to an idol, to some question as to 
the custom of Normandy, which may form 
the subject of an appeal from the Channel 
Islands. Frequently obscure points in old 
Roman-Dutch law, which is in force in South 
Africa and other parts of the Colonies, have 
to be dealt with, as also do questions of French 
law under the Code Napoleon, which still 
prevails in Mauritius and some other parts of 
the Empire. Nor is this all. From India 
come many cases dealing with Hindu and 
Mohammedan law (of the latter of which 
the number is considerable), and Cyprus 
sends appeals on difficult points involving an 
intimate acquaintance with the laws of the 
Ottoman Empire. Added to all this are 
cases from the Admiralty Courts, the Eccle- 
siastical Courts, and even from Consular 
Courts outside the Empire, and from districts 
where the Foreign Jurisdiction Act applies. 

It is, however, from India that the Judicial 
Committee receives the largest proportion of 
appeals., the number for 1906 comprising 
rather more than half the total, which, 
although fluctuating considerably from year 
to year, shows, since 1880, a tendency to 
increase. For recent years the yearly average 
shows a total of ninety-one appeals, of which 
fifty come from various parts of India, six- 
teen from Australia, fourteen from Canada, 
ten from other parts of the Colonies, and one 
from the Channel Islands. 

A Colonist — a young married man- 
had been killed on the railway in distress- 
ing circumstances. His widow demanded 
damages, which the company refused, and 
she appealed to the Courts of the province, 
which granted her one thousand two hundred 
pounds. But the great railway corporation, 
having no bowels of compassion in matters 
of this kind, was very angry at this decision, 
and resolved to defeat it. It engaged the 
best counsel (while the widow had only the 
services of a young local lawyer who was 
convinced of the justice of her cause) and 
appealed to the Supreme Court. This body 
was very powerfully impressed by the brilliant 
arguments of the company's counsel, and, 
hardly listening to the earnest young lawyer, 
found for the company. Now, if there were 
no King and no Empire, and no further privi- 
lege of appeal, this would have been an end 
of the matter. The poor widow would have 




been crushed and ruined, and a great injustice 
would have been done. But, more than 
ever convinced that his cause 
young lawyer brought his client to Caesar. 
He appealed to the Privy Council , and there, 
in that quiet little Court, free from all local 
prejudices and prepossessions t and unmoved 
by forensic eloquence, the appeal was granted, 
the widow got her one thousand two hundred 


pounds and all her costs, and her lawyer got 
such a handsome compliment into the bargain 
that he returned to his native province a 
made man. 

It is extraordinary, the complexity of the 
cases which come before the Court — cases 
which seem to demand an intimate know- 
ledge of Oriental law and customs^ ^tl in 

reality , as was once 
said by one of the 
Law Lords to the 
present writer , " It 
is all done by 
common - sense/* 
There was recently 
a weighty judgment 
relating to the right 
of entry into a 
temple of the god- 
dess Shiva. The 
original plaintiff in 
the suit was the 
Rajah who was the hereditary trustee of this 
temple, which was the temple of one of the 
villages irrhis zemindari. After the case had 
been decided in his favour by the subordinate 
judge, this person (Thought fit to profess that 
he now saw that he and the judge were 
wrong ; and he asked that the judgment 
should be altrftajn^tiginto defeat his own 




action. A very sordid motive for- this sur- 
render was specifically asserted and was not 
disproved, and led to a very difficult case. 
Finally their Lordships, in the set phrase, 
" agreed humbly to advise His Majesty that 
the appeal ought to be dismissed, and ordered 
the appellants to pay the costs of the appeal." 

Then there was a dispute as to the manage- 
ment of a mosque in Mauritius, and an exceed- 
ingly complicated appeal relating to the con- 
struction of an important Maltese will, in 
which the ancient Code of Justinian, the 
Code of Rohan, and such jurists as Torre, 
Peregrinus, and Mantica were freely quoted. 
Another great recent case turned on the right 
of the Japanese to vote in British Columbia. 

The right of appeal to the Judicial Com- 
mittee from the Ecclesiastical Courts is now 
but seldom taken advantage of. Occasionally 
an appeal is heard against the decision of a 
Bishop who, as a punishment for some offence, 
has unfrocked one of his clergy ; but public 
opinion has so changed that little use is now 
made of any of the Ecclesiastical Courts. 
Nevertheless, the right of appeal to the King, 
which has existed ever since the time of 
Henry VIII., when the Sovereign assumed 
the position of temporal head of the English 
Church, remains, and must remain unless 
the Church should be disestablished, when 
all authority of the King and of his Privy 
Council would, of course, be done away with. 

Perhaps the most celebrated of all the 
ecclesiastical appeals was the Gorham case, 
which excited the whole country, when the 
Bishop of Exeter was ordered to induct into 
his benefice a certain reverend gentleman who 
did not believe in infant damnation. Of 
another famous case it was said that " hell 
was dismissed, with costs." Think of judging 
an appeal like this, involving days of argument 
concerning the writings of the early Fathers 
and mediaeval heresies, and then turning 
to settle a question as to whether the Budd- 
hists of the Tibet border had reserved in 
their treaty the right to have roast pig for 
dinner, or a question whether the Hudson 
Bay Company could stop a bridge from being 
built over " Old Squaw's Gulch " ! 

For nearly half a century the late Henry 
Reeve, C.B., occupied the post of Registrar, 
which is now ably filled by Mr. Charles Neish. 
Reeve was a hard worker, and the labour of 
keeping the machinery going was largely left 
to him. As one Lord Chancellor wrote him : 
" You must still be Atlas staggering under the 
weight of your huge Orbis Causarum. Around 
your feet must be millions of Hindus crying 
aloud for justice." 

It often used to be extremely difficult for 
Reeve to get together a quorum of the Judicial 
Committee, and many stories are told of the 
zealous Registrar's appeals to certain Law- 
Lords to come and do their duty in Downing 
Street. In vain they pleaded other engage- 
ments — absence, overwork. " Remember, 

my lord, that you (in combination with X 

and Z ) are the palladium of British 

liberty. Barbados is calling for you in tears ; 
so is Van Diemen's Land, and without you 
Singapore will not be comforted." Once 
Lord Chelmsford intended to dine with a 
party at the Ship at Greenwich. Reeve sent 
him an express message imploring him to 
reconsider. " If you yield to any such 
temptation of pleasure, a mighty wail from 
Bombay will go up which will poison your 
digestion." " I'm sorry I ever meddled in 
Britannia's affairs," wrote one of the Coun- 
cillors. " I dream of the word c quorum ' and 
the dread situation it implies." " It is all 
very well for you," declared the veteran Lord 
Westbury, " to talk of the ' patriotic duty ' 
of attending the Privy Council. You desire 
me to quit my family and all my amusements 
and enjoyments that I may come to town to 
endure complete wretchedness and have a had 
dinner and an indigestion every day. Have 
you not the Lord Justice, who has little else to 
do ? And the Admiralty Judge, and that 
great adminictdum, the learned and pious 
man whom, honoris causa, I call Holy Joe ? " 

But the Registrar was merciless, and the 
thought of arrears made him ill. " Reeve," 
it was said, " goes to bed to the cry of Colonial 
litigants, and wakes up to the gnashing of 
teeth of the Court of Arches." 

The most interesting scene that ever took 
place in Downing Street was when two Indian 
gods — known as the red god and the yellow 
god — pleaded before the Privy Council. As 
it was impossible for them to be present, save 
in spirit, the gods graciously permitted their 
shebayats to argue for them. Rumour spread 
through the East-end of London that the 
gods had condescended to lay their grievances 
at the foot of the British throne, and there 
was much excitement amongst the knot of 
pagans who pressed for admission to the 
Court. For once it seemed as if the silence 
and decorum of the tribunal would have to 
give way, when a priest entered and, after a 
profound salaam to the whole Court, begged 
permission of an attendant to bring a symbol 
of the yellow god within the precincts. To 
this the adherents of the red god expressed 
violent objection, and a devotee was dis- 
patched in ha.ste for a rival idol. There was 




a scene in the corridor when from time to 
time reports of what this or that divinity had 
told his shebayat to say reached the throng 
and doubtless chance pedestrians and busmen 
wondered what all the row was about when a 
knot of dusky turbaned figures emerged into 
Whitehall and the news flew from lip to lip 
that the red god had won the day. 

On another occasion two black chiefs on 
the Gold Coast quarrelled over a boundary* 
It would not, perhaps, have been of very 
great consequence had it not happened that 
the boundary line, which had just been 
delimited by official surveyors, passed directly 
through the site of a village containing a 
sacred chair or throne of office f which each 
chief claimed belonged to him. The dispute 
became exciting and then grave , but the 
chiefs were induced to adopt the more 
peaceful method of going to law. They 
sought out the magistrate, and, dissatisfied 
with his decision, they appealed to the 
Supreme Court of the Colony, It so happened 
that one of the first chief's own sons had been 
sentlo England to be educated ; and having 
been called to the Bar had recently arrived 
in Lagos, intending to practise. His father 
promptly ordered him to undertake the case, 
but unfortunately chief number two had 
placed his case in the hands of the local com- 
missioner, who shrewdly retained the young 

black counsel. The tatter's first case was 
successful. Nevertheless, he said to his 
father : — 

" Father, if you still believe you're right, 
pay no attention to the order of this 
Court, Would you believe the Great White 
Queen if she told you you were wrong ? " 

" The Great White Queen would not 
listen/' growled the chief. 

" She would have to listen. Just you tell 
your lawyer to appeal to the Privy Council, 
Perhaps they will teach us our place 

The chief appealed, but he did not win his 
case. When the judgment was conveyed 
to him, he took fifty of his head men and 
went over to the quarters of the rival chief 
and said : — 

"Go and take the throne. It is yours. 
The Great White Queen has spoken. I had 
meant to make war on you and to kill all 
your people. But the Great White Queen 
has spoken, and she has said I am wrong 
and you are right. So I tell you, the throne 
is yours/' 

One wonders what this sable dignitary 
would have said and thought if he knew that 
the Great White Queen of his imagination, 
sitting on a golden pinnacle and surrounded 
by a million soldiers, was really only four 
tired, elderly gentlemen in a dusty room ? 

Vol Mia-ta 


nginal tram 

Not in the Newspapers 


Illustrated hy Albert Gilbert. 

T is almost beyond compre- 
hension/' said the Chan- 

" It beats— hang it all, 
there's no word for it/' 
cried the Home Secretary, 
" It. is the most dis- 
graceful accusation to which I have ever 
listened/' said the Chairman of the Labour 
Party, with the quiet passion of a cold- 
natured man. 

The Prime Minister nodded ; sat down at 
the head of that long, green-clothed table; 
took up ; fidgeted with, a quill. His voice 
soothed ; his words revealed a sympathy to 
which his own features were for a lasting mask, 

11 It is certainly the most terrible accusation, 
Iliffe. That is why I have asked you to be 
here. The accused person must have the 
fairest of all possible fair play. And " — the 
Prime Minister's voice came quiet, slow, and 
strong — "and I know you to be open to 
evidence — though you are the accused person's 
colleague and — er— friend. 1 ' 

The Chairman of the Labour Party bowed 

u 1 am open to be convinced by sound 
evidence, Mr. OlpherL Hut I warn you that 
I shall not treat the witness less harshly than 
the witness deserves." 

" That is for yourself to decide," said the 
Prime Minister, suavely ; and he looked up 
at the Chancellor, who stood with his back 
to the fire. u We are quite ready, Molyneux. 
IHffe, will you sit next to me ? fI The Prime 
Minister pointed to a chair at his right hand. 
M Molyneux, will you— oh, stand, by all means, 
if you prefer it. Roxburgh, you are nearest, 
Ask Sir Charles to come in." 

The Home Secretary left the fireplace, 
passed by the two impeding pillars, came to 
the double doors, He turned their handles 
en 1 looked into the further room. 

rt Sir Charles I " he called. " Sir Charles ! " 

The Home Secretary stepped aside. A tali 
man, frock-coated , florid, fair-moustached, 
came in. 

*' You are ready, sir ? " he asked, 

* f Quite ready. Bring the lady in. She 

can sit there." The Prime Minister pointed 
to the third chair on the table's left-hand side. 
11 We shall all be able to see her, and she will 
be w p ell in the light. 11 

" Very good, sir." 

Sir Charles Norroway passed through the 
doors again. Mr, Iliffe looked after him 
sternly, The Home Secretary came back to 
the Chancellor's side. The Prime Minister, 
calm, inscrutable, toyed gently with his pen. 
Then again the doors swung, 

" This way, Miss Gale, if you please/' 

The girl entered ; hesitated. Sir Charles 
Norroway closed the doors, slipped past her, 
drew back the allotted chair, The girl took 
it, drew it forward, put on the table a handbag 
and a paper-covered book. Then — the sun 
shone full, and was dazzling her — she drew 
the chair back again , sat well away from the 
table, but in full view of the men. The Home 
Secretary adjusted his monocle. The Chancellor 
ran his fingers, through his hair. The Prime 
Minister's mouth twitched- Mr. Iliffe pursed 
his lips. The honour, the political life and 
death of a prominent member of his follow- 
ing stood attacked. And the accuser was 
this little provincial, impudent, ill-dressed. 
Though no one — not even the most pre- 
judiced — could fail to see that brains stuck 
out of her, whether for good or ill. 

She wore the most unbecoming hat imagin- 
able, and beneath it was the funniest, queerest 
little nose in the universe — a snub without 
snubness, an adorable morsel of irregularity 
which gave immense character to a tiny fare. 
Above the nose were two astonishing blue 
eyes, which ought, by every canon of com- 
plexion, to have been brown. The lips were 
full, with mocking, upward corners, and 
showed vital, brilliant, against white and 
even teeth. The miniature chin was round, 
not shrewish ; the cheeks were very pale, 
and the hair was as black as any night-bird's 
wing. She had an air of eager alertness, the 
quick earnest of an intelligence swift and rare. 
She was of middle height, and she had unn 
into the room so softly that it seemed as if 
her feet kissed, not trod upon, the thickly* 




And four men 
were considering 
her, making up 
their minds. The 
fifth ma n — S i r 
Charles Norroway 
— had long since 
made up his. 

** Independent — 
unusual ; full of 
character; looks as 
if she had imagina- 
tion. Wonder ho w 
much of her tale's 
made up ? >J And 
the Chancellor, 
deeply reflective t 
ran his fingers 
through his hair. 

The Home Secre- 
tary relaxed his 
right eyelid ; let 
click his monocle 
that he might 
obtain a better 
view. " Brains/' 
his insight shouted 
to him. u Brains; 
oh, lots of 'em. 
And character — 
wonder what sort 
it is ? And, Jove, 
she'd be awfully 
attractive if she 
wasn't so beastly 

The Chairman of 
the Labour Party, 
naturally preju- 
diced f had her 
promptly placed, 
11 She's an impostor 
— an adventuress ; 
an impudent little 
wretch* Whv, the 
nose gives her 
away, at sight." 

" Sincere, but self-assertive/' the Prime 
Minister was thinking, " Yes, she is, indubit- 
ably, sincere." And then he cleared his 
throat. Upon him the little provincial— who, 
the looked -at, had been calmly, as it seemed, 
in her turn docketing her audience— promptly 
fixed her eyes. The Prime Minister — his 
enemies denied him sense of humour — despite 
the gravity, the great gravity, of the situation 
— felt an insane desire to laugh. He sup- 
pressed it ; cleared his throat again ; began. 

" Miss Gale, I shall be obliged if you will 


repeat to these gentlemen the story which 
you have told to Sir Charles Norroway and 
myself. Begin at the beginning, please. 
And go straight on. We shall probably 
interrupt you with questions — from time to 
time. But/ 5 he was going to say "-don't be 
nervous " ; then realized that the exhorta- 
tion seemed ridiculous, and so carried on the 
just- begun sentence in an entirely different 
way. ** But don't talk too fast. Go as 
slowly as you can/ 1 
" Very goodpriginal from 




The little provincial spoke with the air of a 
Serene Highness — but she did not imme- 
diately begin. There had been a general 
movement. Mr. Iliffe had leaned forward ; 
the Chancellor, then the Home Secretary, 
had advanced ; each stood resting his fore- 
arms over the back of a chair. Sir Charles 
Norroway had retreated to the fireplace and, 
from the full ere'ctness of his great height, 
looked over the two Ministers' backs at this 
little woman about whom he had long since 
made up his mind. Miss Gale, with an 
actress's true instinct for an attentive audi- 
ence, waited till quiet came. Her diction 
married with her facial expression, quarrelled 
with her clothes. 

" I am a sorting clerk and telegraphist. 
I work at Netherwich. I " 

" Where's Netherwich— Cheshire ? " 

The voice of Mr. Iliffe rapped the question 
across. Miss Gale, who had begun by address- 
ing the Prime Minister, turned to her inter- 
rupter, knew him hostile, spoke at him, 

" Netherwich is in Worcestershire ; not 
Cheshire. They make salt there. It is also 
a spa. It was at Netherwich that I saw Mr. 
Blair Richards first. But you — you wrote 
to him there — several times." 

" I ! " 

Mr. Iliffe gasped, made a gesture, half of 
protest, half of admission, turned to Mr. 
Olphert ; then glanced at the two Ministers 
on his right. " Yes, I certainly wrote to him 
— but " — anger usurped surprise and his 
voice grew very bitter — " but you couldn't 
possibly know that by fair means ! " 

" Perhaps not. Still, I sort the letters, you 
see. And when people who send letters 
write their names in full on the corners of 
envelopes — well, they can't blame us, at the 
Post Office, for being interested." 

The Prime Minister's mouth twitched 
again. The Chancellor's forearms jerked. 
The Home Secretary kicked the right hind 
leg of the chair upon which he leaned. Sir 
Charles Norroway, neither judge nor jury — 
but the true audience in the gallery — smiled 
— with his eyes. And Miss Gale's voice 
changed now, lost much of its pertness, 
seemed calmer, less assured. At the altered 
sound of it Sir Charles Norroway, who knew 
what pertness covered, knew that much of 
her nervousness was gone. 

" You see," she went on, " people in the 
Post Office notice things — which they have 
sworn not to repeat outside. And when 
some person gets a lot of letters, sometimes 
the postmen mention it — or the clerks talk 

to each other — and in the case of telegrams, 
in these little places, we see all that come and 
go. And that is how I know that you (I've 
seen your photograph in the Mirror) wrote 
to Mr. Blair Richards — and how I noticed his 
letters — from abroad— and took stock of the 
telegrams on the files. You see, we have 
always an undercopy of each received tele- 
gram to which we can refer. And I noticed 
that Mr. Blair Richards had lots of letters 
from Holland — and lots of cipher telegrams 
as well." 

Miss Gale paused, glanced at her foot, 
observed that, sitting, as she was, well back 
from the table, she displayed overmuch ankle ; 
picked up her skirt at the knees, lifted it 
down methodically — and proceeded with her 
tale. She had, now, her audience absolutely 
in her grip. 

" I have always been " — she spoke with 
demureness, delicious, infinite — " I have 
always been of an adventurous disposition — 
I think it must be because — we were well off 
once — because my father, who wanted me 
to be a good French scholar, used to give me 
sixpence a page for translating ' The Three 
Musketeers ' — and d'Artagnan was my favour- 
ite hero — and I think he still is. When we 
lost our money I began life as a governess, 
but it was so dull, and I went into the Post 
Office because I liked seeing lots of people 
and wondering what they did — and were. 
I've often followed them " 

" Followed them ! " Mr. Iliffe and the 
Home Secretary spoke in the self-same breath. 

" Yes." Miss Gale looked no less aston- 
ished than her interrupters. " Shadowed 
them, you know — for the sake of seeing where 
they went to. And when I knew that Mr. 
Blair Richards was at the Feathers I thought 
it very strange that an English member of 
Parliament should have so many letters from 
abroad. So " — Miss Gale sighed — " life is 
very dull at Netherwich, and I thought I 
should like to see what it all meant. And 
then, one day, a man came to the counter 
and handed in a message to — to you, Mr. 
Iliffe. You remember, perhaps ? It was 
about ten days ago." 

" I do — but I fail to see what connection 
your — spying on my telegrams has to do with 
the matter in hand." 

" Well — you see " — Miss Gale gave him 
the full benefit of those unfathomable blue 
eyes — " you see, the telegram was signed. 
And I went up to the top of the counter and 
spoke to Miss — to the other clerk. ' Do you 
know who that gentleman is ? ' I asked. 
'That's Blair Richards, the young Labour 




M.P./ she said. So I went back to the 
counter again and gave him the stamps and 
watched him put them on the form. And I 
said to myself, ' Very well, the first time I see 
you when I'm off duty I'll takeyou for a walk.' " 

"Take him for a walk!" The Home 
Secretary, who had been leaning very far 
forward, stood suddenly bolt upright. " Take 
him for a walk ! My good girl, what on earth 
do you mean ? " 

" Oh, that's only a manner of speaking — 
what they say in the very best detective 
stories. Shadow him, I mean, of course. 
And all that week," Miss Gale went on with 
her story — " all that week he kept on sending 
telegrams and getting letters from abroad. 
And last week — I was off in the afternoons, 
and I soon found that he (Mr. Blair Richards) 
used to go into the Brine Baths Park to listen 
to the band. I used to go too. I took a 
book with me " — Miss Gale, gave a little 
smile — " it was one of Gushing's ; I don't 
like Gushing, but I thought it would make 
me look simple if I took it in my hand. The 
book — I have it here — is called ' Love Me, 
Love My Dog.' And then, one day — I must 
really " (Miss Gale smiled openly) " I must 
really have looked as stupid as I wanted to — 
I was sitting next to Mr. Blair Richards, and 
he spoke to me. He said, ' I see you like 
love stories,' and I said, ' I dote on them — 
don't you ? ' He laughed, and — it's really 
very dull at Netherwich — he looked as if he 
was dull too — and as if he was hesitating 
whether he would try to flirt with me — so I 
simpered and looked as stupid as I could — 
and I could see I bored him — and he got up 
— and went off. And then I knew he was a — 
that the letters and telegrams were up to no 

" But this is monstrous — monstrous." The 
Chairman of the Labour Party appealed to 
Mr. Olphert in his wrath. " We are making 
ourselves ridiculous, sir. Are we to pay 
attention to a child ? " 

The Prime Minister touched Mr. Iliffe's 
arm with a pacific and placating hand. 

" I think we must hear all that Miss Gale 
has to siy," he said. 

" Oh, well " — Mr. Iliffe shrugged his shoul- 
ders — " if you insist, sir. But it's nonsense 
— it's waste — sheer waste of time." 

Miss Gale, calmer than ever, opened her 
red-lipped mouth to pursue. The Home 
Secretary put a question first. 

" One is interested to know," he said — 
" one is interested to know why, as you put 
it, you knew Mr. Blair Richards was a — was 
uptonogood/V |ijze<Jby Q 

" I didn't like his face," replied Miss Gale, 
and looked at him with the utmost gravity. 
" I didn't like his face." 

There came a frank laugh from the Home 
Secretary, a chuckle from the Chancellor ; 
as for Sir Charles Norroway, he was in 
ecstasies by the fire. The Prime Minister 
stayed impassive. Mr. Iliffe's cheeks were 

" Good heavens, sir," he cried, " is this to 
be allowed to go on ? " 

" I think we must heAr all that Miss Gale 
has to say," came the quiet insistence. " She 
has nearly finished now." The Prime 
Minister tapped his pen-top on the table. 
Mr. Iliffe flung himself back in his chair. 
Miss Gale — that actress's instinct again — sat 
waiting till quiet was restored. 

" Go on, please," said the Home Secretary, 
feeling that he was at a play. 

And Miss Gale pursued. 

" The next day — I was watching the 
telegrams very carefully — there was a message 
for Mr. Richards from Rotterdam. It was 
not in cipher ; it was very short. It said " 
— Miss Gale advanced to the table, stood there 
while she opened her handbag, then, notebook 
in hand, turned over the pages, and read 
aloud — " it said, ' Coming to lunch to-morrow 
— Jackson.' Immediately after that came 
another telegram, addressed to the Feathers 
Hotel. It said " — again Miss Gale refreshed 
her memory — " it said, i Reserve room 
to-morrow night — Jackson/ That came from 
Rotterdam too ; and next day I met the 

" The train ? What train ? " It was the 
Chancellor who spoke. 

" Oh, the one-ten. You see, I went to the 
station and asked for a Great Eastern time- 
table. I saw that the boat-train got to London 
at eight in the morning, and that the — that Mr. 
Jackson would probably leave Paddington 
at nine-forty-five. So I walked along the 
station road. I met the hotel bus. It had 
luggage on it — and no one was inside. I went 
on a little farther, and met Mr. Richards 
with a — Mr. Jackson, no doubt." 

" What was Mr. Jackson like ? " And 
the question came from the Chancellor 

" He was a short, tubby, dapper little man 
who lifted his feet very high, and his face 
was all criss-crossed with scars, as if he had 
been fighting." 

" What ! " 

The Chancellor started, looked at the Home 
Secretary, who nodded ; then both Ministers 
looked at Sir Charles Norroway, who nodded 




emphatically back. Miss Gale, at the ex- 
clamation, had stopped dead. 

" Go on, please," said Mr. Olphert's voice, 

Miss Gale resumed. The Home Secretary 
and the Chancellor were leaning forward to 
the utmost limit that their chair-backs 

" As I passed them they were talking very 
fast, and they didn't notice me. So in the 
afternoon I went into the park — about three 
o'clock — it was very empty — the band doesn't 
play there always — and I got into a sort of 
shrubbery place at the back of a row of chairs 
— a place you don't know of, unless you know 
the park very well. Presently I saw Mr. 
Richards and his friend come in. They took 
two chairs — right away from anyone else's ; 
there was no one for twenty yards on either 
side of them, and I saw them begin to talk. 
I slipped off my shoes and crept in among 
the bushes and got quite close, so that I 
could hear." 

Miss Gale — that actress's instinct again- 
made a pause, cleared her throat, smoothed 
down that briefest of brief skirts. Mr. 
Iliffe's heart quickened ; was she speaking 
the truth after all ? 

" Go on, please," said the Home Secretary, 
anxiously. " Go on, please, Miss Gale." 
Miss Gale went on. Mr. Iliffe's face grew 

" They were talking— about strikes— about 
the last strike. Mr Richards was saying that 
if he had had a hundred thousand pounds to 
back him he could have kept it going two 
months and have cost the plutocracy and 
the middle classes two hundred millions. 
Then the foreign gentleman had the talking 
to himself. He said lots ; but it all amounted 
to this. ' My master ' (he said) c my master 
doesn't want war ; he wants it less than any 
man ; but he knows that war often comes 
without being wanted, and he wants to be on 
the winning side. Now, if you could guar- 
antee — if war should come — at any future 
time — if you could guarantee a general strike 
immediately war— a week before we are 
ready, you understand — my master will 
guarantee to leave you as President when 
peace is made and to support you then — if 
need be, by force. And in consideration of 
such a guarantee my master is prepared to 
pay you ten thousand pounds now — on 
receipt of proof that you are in a position — 
to bring about the strike, which he would 
also be prepared to finance 

Miss Gale paused again ; once more cleared 
her throat. 

Digitized by I^OOQIC 

" Yes ? " said the Chancellor, eagerly. 
Mr. Iliffe's face was very white indeed. 

" Why," Miss Gale went on again. " Why, 
Mr. Blair Richards laughed. ' In a position ! ' 
he said. ' Why, you shall take him the secret 
correspondence relating to the last strike— 
I've got it — at the hotel. But understand — 
no strike without ten thousand pounds down 
— now — and at least two hundred thousand 
on the day that the strike starts.' ' Very 
good,' said the scarred gentleman. ' Give 
me proof, and I'll take it to my master, and 
you shall have the ten thousand pounds this 
day week. Where shall I communicate with 
you ? Where shall I send the draft ? ' ' To 
the House of Commons,' said Mr. Blair 
Richards ; * it's the safest place in the world. 
No one would touch a member's letter ; 
nobody would dare.' And he laughed — and 
ths foreign gentleman laughed — and they 
went on talking about Socialism and other 
things, and what Mr. Blair Richards would 
do if he were President. The last thing he 
said as he got up to go was this : ' If ever 
I've half a chance I'll wipe out the aris- 
tocracy and the middle classes. I will bleed 
them. It's been the dream of my life.' And 
as " — Miss Gale sat bolt upright and looked 
at Mr. Iliffe hard — " as it's been the dream 
of my life to do something for my country, I 
ran back to the office — and asked for a day's 
holiday — and called at Scotland Yard." 

"And did jolly well!" cried the Home 
Secretary, the most human of them all. " By 
Jove ! you've pulled off what many men 
would have given their right hands to do." 

The Chancellor nodded. Mr. Iliffe — as 
true a patriot as any of them — tried to, could 
not, find words. Truth had forced itself upon 
him ; he knew that the girl did not lie. But 
he would still fight on behalf of the accused. 

The Prime Minister spoke. 

" Sir Charles Norroway, will you kindly 
take Miss Gale out for a moment ? Miss Gale, 
I am obliged to you. We shall want you — 
later on." 

The little provincial rose to her feet, bowed 
comprehensively, turned and went down the 
room. At the bottom of the table Sir Charles 
Norroway met her, passed before her, held 
open the doors. Miss Gale passed through 
them. Sir Charles Norroway shut them; 
then swung round and came back. 

" You will want me, sir, I think ? " 

Mr. Olphert nodded. The Home Secretary 
sat down. The Chancellor followed his 
example. Sir Charles Norroway came round 
to the Prime Minister's left. The Prime 
Minister spoke again. 





unginal from 




" Gentlemen, you may ©r may not believe 
this young woman's tale. But of what 
follows you may rest assured. As Sir Charles 
Norroway will tell you, the foreign gentleman 
whom Miss Gale describes is the agent — to 
the Secret Service wfell-known agent — of a 
Continental Power. He was observed to 
land at Harwich. He was followed to Nether- 
wich the same day. He was seen to be met 
by Mr. Blair Richards — who was seen with 
him in the park — though, in his ignorance, 
the watcher could not get as near as — as 
Miss Gale alleges that she did. The agent 
returned to Rotterdam the following day. 
And there is only one possible way of satisfy- 
ing ourselves about the rest." 

"What is that?" Mr. Iliffe's voice was 
different ; altogether less assured. 

" By opening a registered letter addressed 
to Blair Richards — a registered letter which was 
delivered to Sir Charles Norroway this morning 
by the Postmaster of the House of Commons." 

" By what right ? " Mr. Iliffe was still 
fighting for the man in whose innocence all 
his faith had gone. 

"By mine!" 

" Yours ! " Mr. Iliffe turned on the Home 
Secretary like a flash. 

" Yes ; on a warrant — issued under the 
standingAct of Parliament — and signed by me." 

" But "—it was Mr. Iliffe's last effort— 
" but, Mr. Olphert, sir. I protest ! " 

The Prime Minister waved a deprecating 

" It is all perfectly legal," came his quiet 
decision. " It is, in fact, in the best interests 
of your — er — friend. Here " — Mr. Olphert 
opened a despatch-box, took out a sheaf of 
papers, gave them into Mr. Iliffe's hands — 
"here are various letters — incriminating 
letters — sent to Mr. Blair Richards these last 
five days. The originals " — the Prime 
Minister smiled grimly — " the originals went 
back — into their envelopes — and are now in 
Mr. Blair Richards's hands. You will observe " 
— Mr. Iliffe was devouring the manuscripts — 
" you will observe that the last letter speaks 
of a remittance by next mail. Sir Charles " 
— the Prime Minister spoke now to the head 
of the Secret Service — " we must call on you — 

" Yes, sir ; the letter is here." 

Sir Charles Norroway opened his pocket- 
book, took an envelope out. He held it 
between thumb and finger, showing the 
audience its back. It was addressed thus : — 

Blair Richards, Esqre., 

House of Commons, 

London, S.W. 

The postmark was Rotterdam. The en- 
velope was tightly fastened and sealed. 

Sir Charles Norroway took a little oblong 
letter-case from his hip-pocket, drew from 
thq, letter-case a small sheet of extremely 
thin lead. He went over to a press by the 
window, put the letter in it, face downwards, 
so that the lead lay over the seal ; he turned 
the lever, twisted it till the slabs, save for 
lead and letter, met. Then he reversed 
the lever, screwed the slabs apart. The 
letter lay between them, still covered by the 
lead. Sir Charles lifted the lead carefully. 
The wax was unbroken. The lead was marked 
with a most perfect impression of the seal. 
The w^x could now be melted — the letter be 
opened — and, if necessary, be resealed. 

Sir Charles came to a side table, which 
seemed to have been prepared for him ; put 
his little case on it, sat down. The Home 
Secretary stood behind him. The Chancellor 
leaned across. The Prime Minister sat 
motionless. Mr. Iliffe was on his feet. On 
the contents of this letter hung Blair Richards's 
political life and death. 

Sir Charles Norroway took a piece of thin 
candle from the letter-case, also something like 
a nail-cleaner ; also a pipe-cleaning toy in three 
pieces, one of which was a tiny metal spoon. 
He lit the candle, held the wax to it, scooped 
the wax deftly into a red bullet, dropped 
the wax on an ink-stand's widespread rim. 
Then he took a piece of wet blottiirg-paper, 
set it across the back of the envelope — and 

" This kind of thing is un-English, Sir 
Charles. I protest — I " 

"My dear Iliffe "—the Prime Minister's 
voice, as ever, came calm and strong — " it 
is not less un-English than treachery is. 
Blair Richards is suspected, not condemned. 
This letter may prove him innocent — in any 
case, he will have an opportunity of proving 
his innocence." The Prime Minister took his 
watch from his pocket. " He will be here — 
in ten minutes' time." 

" Here ? He is coming here ? " 

The Home Secretary, who had killed big 
game — men amongst it — looked at Mr. Iliffe, 
and smiled. The Chancellor ran his fingers 
through his hair. The Chairman of the 
Labour Party went grey. A man who was a 
power — a man who was already a rival — the 
youngest, strongest, most promising democrat 
qjnhe hour, a man who was useful — and an 
obstacle — a help, yet dangerous too — the fate 
of this man was being decided before his eyes. 
The room hr.d seen much; it had seldom 
seen the drama that it saw to-day. 



And Sir Charles was hard at his task. 

Wet blotting-paper had done its purpose ; 
the flap of the cover was soft ; the expert 
fingers had inserted that ivory nail-cleaner 
thing at the topmost right-hand corner ; it 
was raising, carefully, delicately, the flap 
from the wet, weak gum. The right-hand side 
was finished ; the left side had its turn. 
Then the nail-cleaner thing was worked gently 
under the peak of the flap. 

44 Perhaps, sir " — Sir Charles Norroway held 
the now open envelope across — " perhaps it 
would be moFe satisfactory if you " 

" Perhaps it would/' came the quiet answer. 
And the audience hung upon the Prime 
Minister's act. 

There was a tug ; a noise of paper crackling ; 
a letter, thin and shiny, was pulled out, lay 
exposed, unfolded by steady, untrembling 
hands. From within it another paper fell. 
That, too, the Prime Minister had open in its 

" Gentlemen," he said > " here is a bank- 
draft for ten thousand pounds. It is payable 
to Mr. Blair Richards — at the London branch 
of the Amsterdamsche Bank." 

There was a silence, fateful, long, while 
the bank-draft, tell-tale, incriminating, went 
from hand to hand. Sir Charles Norroway 
looked at the Prime Minister ; the Prime 
Minister looked back. The Home Secretary 
and the Chancellor exchanged glances. Then 
all eyes focused upon Mr. Iliffe's face. 

" Guilty," said the Home Secretary, sud- 
denly — " guilty, by Heaven ! " 

" Lunatic ! " said the Chancellor. " If he 
was out for treachery, why didn't he take 
proper care ? " 

" Thought his position — as a member — 
would save him," said the Home Secretary. 
" You remember, Betthany thought the 

44 But this is — this is no evidence." Mr. 
Iliffe, more horror-struck than any of them, 
still did his loyal best. " This may be a 
mere business transaction — a nothing. .What 
does the letter say ? " 

44 I will read it to you," said the Prime 
Minister. " It says this — in French : — 

44 4 Here enclosed is a draft upon the London 
branch of the Amsterdamsche Bank for the 
sum of ten thousand pounds (sterling), pay- 
able at sight. My employer is most pleased 
with your credentials, which, however, he 
thinks fit to retain. Of your powers — and 
of your ability to compass that which you said 
you could compass — my employer is well 
satisfied now. He wishes me to confer with 
you again at an early date ; and I shall have 

pleasure in hearing from you as to when and 
where will be convenient and most safe. My 
employer wishes me to assure you that the 
sum enclosed is but an earnest of what he 
will have sent to you should he decide, 
ultimately, to found the business which we 
discussed.' " 

There was another silence. The Chancellor 
and the Home Secretary were looking at each 
other ; the Chairman of the Labour Party 
was gnawing hard at his moustache. The 
Prime Minister took Mr. Iliffe by the arm. 
44 Now," he whispered, kindly — " now to rid 
you of a fellow who would have wrecked your 
party — infallibly — as he would have wrecked 
his country — for gold." 

Mr. Iliffe's lips quivered. He had not 
liked Blair Richards — he had even feared 
him — but he knew him able, self-educated — 
as no other man who called him chief. And 
— after all — this was — for all that counted 
to a man of ambition — death. 

44 Yes — I — I fear so. But you will give 
Blair — you will give him a chance to explain ?" 

Mr. Olphert nodded ; took out his watch 
again ; then turned to Sir Charles. 

44 Mr. Blair Richards is due in this house 
now. He should be waiting in an upstairs 
room. Bring in Miss Gale, please. Then 
fetch Blair Richards down." 

44 Very good, sir." 

Sir Charles Norroway walked to the folding 
doors ; opened them, beckoned, stood back. 
Miss Gale crossed the threshold— hesitated, 
flushed up — for to her four men had, not 
imperceptibly, bowed. The Home Secretary 
himself hurried to set her a chair. She took 
it, sat there, something breathless, red- 
cheeked, and eyes alight. Sir Charles went 
out again ; after him the doors were closed. 

" I must trouble you to stand up, please. 
Kindly face the doors." 

Miss Gale obeyed. The Prime Minister 
pursued. He, too, had a taste for drama in 
his cold and quiet way. 

11 Take out that book of yours." 

Again Miss Gale obeyed. 

" Hold it — like " — he came and showed 
her — " like — so that the title is visible to 
anyone coming in at those doors." 

Miss Gale again obeyed him ; stood at the 
left of the table, the book held at its top, 
between finger and thumb, title and picture 
now in fullest view. 4I Love Me, Love My 
Dog (Hundred and fiftieth edition) ; a love 
story by George Gushing." 

" Thank you." Mr. Olphert looked round. 
44 Gentlemen, we shall not be kept many " 

The doors, flung open, sliced his speech in 

university of Michigan 



half. Sir Charles Norroway's voice came 
clear from the room beyond. 

11 Mr. Blair Richards to see the Prime 

A man — tall, thin, clean-shaven, full-lipped 
and sallow and brown -eyed — came forward } 
walking theatrically ; shoulders squared, 
head uplifted ; a mass of studied self-import- 
ance ; a poseur, even to himself. 

" Ah ; Mr. Olphert. Good morning ! " 

Blair Richards's voice, rich — for his spare- 
ness strangely oleaginous — called the greeting 
as he stepped across the threshold, And the 


ng with 

incomer strode forward into the room. He 
had spoken rather to where he thought the 
Prime Minister was than to where the Prime 
Minister actually sat. It was sunnier in the 
council-chamber than in the darker ^ just-left 
ante-room ? and he failed for an instant to see 
clear. But only for an instant. Arid into 
his sallow face came a sudden look of fear. 
It was momentary. Again he advanced — 
the stab of conscience had been but a pin- 
prick — by now he could see them all. And, 
though he marvelled, he was proud. Three 
Cabinet Ministers — and his own leader — to 

meet — him ; him 
who had once been 
a boy in a shop. 
It showed htm his 
power — what he 
hp,d risen to — and 
how high — the 
black heart of him 
rioted — how high 
he was going to 

He had reached 
the Home Secre- 
tary — who stood 
nearest to the door. 
Blair Richards put 
out his hand. The 
Home Secretary 
bowed faintly ; the 
Chancellor did the 
same, Iliffe — his 
own leader — faced 
him, motionless 
and cold, The 
Prime Minister, 
who had been 
sitting, rose slowly 
to his feet. 

"Mr, Blair 
Richards, I asked 
you to come and 
see me that I 
might discuss cer- 
tain questions in 
connection with 

strikes. I -** 

But the words, 
slow and frigid, fell 
half- heard, upon 
dull, unheeding 
cars. Blair 
Richards was star- 
ing—staring with 
eyes. For there, 
across the table, a 





little provincial faced him ; faced him with 
a book in her hand ; a book whose cover 
mocked him, whose title seared his brain. 

" Love Me, Love My Dog" 

The large and garish letterings were as 
darts of dancing flame. And, lifting his eyes 
to escape them, he beheld an accusing face. 

" Heavens ! Mr. Olphert ! " 

Blair Richards started backwards ; a sheaf 
of papers fell from his palsied hand. He 
glanced round, saw coldness everywhere : 
coldness, scorn, contempt. Instinctively he 
glanced at the doors. Against them, erect 
and passionless, Sir Charles Norroway stood. 
And the pose fell from the traitor like a 
mantle ; he stood naked, cowardly, disclosed. 

" W — what does this mean ? W — why 
have you sent for me ? W — why do you not 
speak ? " His stammered questions, start- 
ing braggadocious, ended on a note of pitiful 

The Prime Minister came forward ; fixed 
on Blair Richards those icy-cold, blue eyes. 
In his hand he held the letter and the bank 
draft — for the Labour member to see. 

" We have here — your letter — from your 
friend — your confederate in a foreign Power's 

"What letter? What do you mean ? " 

" The letter which you arranged for at 
Netherwich — with the foreign gentleman — 
who had— a duellist's face. He joined you 
at the station — he met you — in the park." 

" She lies." Blair Richards pointed fiercely 
at the girl across the table. " She lies — I 
tell you she lies." 

The Prime Minister smiled ere he answered, 
shrugged his shoulders, hurled his clean-flung 

" She has not yet spoken. How — can you 
say that she lies ? " 

" But I tell you " 

" Mr. Richards— you bore us." (The cold 
voice, never rising, conquered by quiet 
strength). " You bore us with your defence. 
What you arranged — what Miss Gale heard 
you arranging — is proved and trebly proved. 
This letter— this draft "—the Prime Minister 
held them forward — " are treason." 

" Treason ! " 

" Yes — treason — treason unspeakable. 
Now, sir, you — you can go. Thank your 
God that you are in England where we do 
not advertise these things. You Will not 
enter the House — nor set foot in it. The 
Chiltern Hundreds — the Chancellor here gives 
you them — are yours " 

" And the twenty shillings with it." A coin 
pitched on the table, went bouncing from 

v tizec 

table to floor. The Chancellor's voice was 
lifted ; his Irish blood was aboil. " Take 
your emoluments and go " 

« Go— but what " 

" Health — domestic trouble — anything 
that you please — out of political life alto- 
gether — out of industrial life " 

" But " 

" Silence ! n The Chairman of the Labour 
Party thundered out the word ; he who had 
fought for the traitor while the treachery 
stayed in doubt now proved himself the 
patriot that he was. " Silence. You have 
heard the Prime Minister's sentence ; now — 
now hear mine. Such men* as you are the 
scum of the universe ; the Judases who sell 
their fellows, who slay democracy, who play 
for their own hands only — who would 
murder men in thousands for their own 
selfish aims — who make liberty a each-word 
with which to rise to power — who make — 
who render inevitable the wars which we 
work to avoid. Dare to mix yourself with 
politics — dare to attend a Labbur congress — 
dare even to address a meeting — and by 
Heaven I'll expose you whether Mr. Olphert 
will let me or no. You are a curse to your 
party — a blot on it — a blackguard — and a 
cur. Go " — the broad-shouldered giant took 
a swift step forward. " Go — or 111 throw you 
through the doors." 

Blair Richards still hesitated ; stood there, 
searching the eyes of them all ; implored 
with his own eyes their mercy, and, imploring 
it, found none. Then, with a curse, he swung 
round, went down the room again, passed 
through the doors which were opened for him 
by Sir Charles Norroway's most ready hands. 
Political life would know the traitor no longer 
— and the newspapers would not have the 

The four men — themselves pale — nerve- 
wrung with excitement — looked at each 
other without words. Miss Gale was for- 
gotten — for the time. Then the Prime 
Minister shook the Chairman of the Labour 
Party warmly by the hand. 

" Thank you ! " he cried. " You told him 
what I wanted to tell him, yet meant to leave 
unsaid. But you gave the words a force 
which I could never have given them. We — 
you, Iliffe, more than any man — are well rid 
of the fellow so cheap. And I think we have 
settled things rightly. Advertisement is the 
last thing we desire." 

" The last thing," said the Chancellor. 

" Quite the last thing," the Home Secretary 

" Speaking of advertisement/ 9 began Mr, 




"go — or i'll throw you through the doors 

Iliffe, i( what — does Miss Gale go back to the 
Post Office— again ? " 

"She enters another Department/ 1 came 
Mr, Olphert's reply. " Sir Charles Norroway 
thinks the Secret Service has need of her. I 
think that Sir Charles Norroway is right/ 1 

tE I think so too," Mr, Iliffe leaned across 
the table, shook the little provincial's hand. 
" Miss Gale, I congratulate you — on having — 
by your own talents — come into your destined 

" And I congratulate you likewise/' said 
the Chancellor, taking the hand which Mr. 
Iliffe had let go. 

" And I ? too/' said the Home Secretary, 
following suit in turn. 

"Thank vw." Miss 
Gate's mouth quivered, 
and her voice shook a 
little, but she smiled. 
" Thank you- Believe 
me — I will try to do 
good work/' 

There was a pause. 
The Home Secretary 
took out his watch. 

" I must be going/ 1 
he said. u I am due 
at ttie House," 

"And I, too/ 1 the 
Chancellor took up. 

"And I," Mr. Iliffe 

" I will follow — pre- 
sently/' said the Prime 

The three men 
passed out. Miss Gale 
followed them at a 
motion from Sir Charles. 
" Wait in the ante- 
room/' he said. " I will 
see' you — later on." 
Then he came up to the 
far end of the Council 
Chamber again. The 
Prime Minister was at 
a window, looking into 
the garden beyond. 
Sir Charles stayed 
mot ion less , waiting for 
Mr, Olphert to speak. 
At last the Prime 
Minister looked round. 
" It is curious/' he said, slowly, tl but it 
has always been the same, There are always 
traitors — there always have been — there must 
always be, History is the first of mimics, 
after' all/' 

" Yes, sir." Sir Charles Norroway 's voice 
was thoughtful. Li And they — they are always 
brought to book. Think of this miracle— -a 
plot frustrated by a child," 

'* And the child being the right child — the 
child having the brains. ** 

* ( It is— it is the genius of the race, sir. 
The hour brings the man — or woman — of 
which the hour has need. It has saved us 
—it has always saved m— it is the genius of 
the race/' 



Original from 

" Stars and Their Struggles. 

Life s Amazing V icissitudes Told uy the following Leading Stage Favourites ; 

Lina Cavalierly Marie Lloyd, Auguste Van Biene, 

Edmund Payne, and Maurice Farkoa* 

HE cynic is apt to declare that 
success on the stage is gener- 
ally the result of the combi- 
nation of a modicum of talent 
and unlimited influence. The 
careers of various popular 
artistes, however, effectively 
prove the fallacy of this belief, as some of 
the life-stories of leading members of several 
branches of the profession to-day who have 
won lame and fortune by sheer hard work 
clearly indicate. 

In order, therefore, to provide our readers 
with some real romances from Stage- 
land, we have collected from a number of 
the most popular stage favourites an account 
of the amazing vicissitudes 
through which they have 
had to pass before finally 
** coming into their own," 



a v alien. 

which seemed sn gay and sparkling, and I 
was never happier than when picturing 
myself looking out upon a sea of faces 
sitting silently watching me and only wait- 
ing until I had finished my song to break 
out with bursts of ringing acclamation. 

And under the clear Italian skies — I am a 
native of Rome — my ambitions grew and 
ripened as my little circle of friends — the 
other Roman children who wandered about 
with me in the doorways of the Piazza di 
Spagna— used to sympathize with me, for 
they were all well aware of my ambitions ; 
and in the evenings would often gather round 
and ask me to sing or dance. So in the street, 
before a little huddled group of poor and, 
I fear, often ragged Roman 
children , I made my first ap- 
pearance in public. 

Several years 

UNA CAVALIER I. slipped by Ul 

photo btf tMiuckarim. this way, and 

From Street 

Singer to 



In my earli- 
est days of 
childhood — 
when I was 
only just five 
years old — my ambitions 
were divided between two de- 
sires : to be a great singer and 
a great dancer. For a long 
time, however, no solution of 
this "knotty" problem which so 
worried my little mind would pre- 
sent itself, and, determined as I 
was to become famous in either one 
direction or the other, and confi- 
dent as I felt of ultimately suc- 
ceeding, I could never quite make 
up my mind. 

One day — a fesia, I think it w T as 
— my mother had taken me to see 
a comic opera at the theatre, and 
from the moment I left the build- 
ing I made a firm resolve to follow 
the hand which seemed to be 
beckoning to me from behind the 
row of glittering footlights. 

So for ever afterwards I used 
to dream about those scenes 






my dancing kept improving as the days went 
on. Passers-by often used to stop and watch 
my dancing with interest, and I felt very 
proud to think that grown-up people deemed 
it worth their while to stand and admire my 
childish efforts. 

But as yet I was a very, very long way from 
reaching the goal which appeared to me so 
bright and attractive. My father for some 
time had been in failing health ; my mother 
was powerless to give me any help, and my 
brothers and sisters were all too young to be 
able to earn anything at all. So, for a time, 
I was under a cloud which showed no signs of 

However, a few months later I made my 
appearance at a caji chantant, and earned 
sufficient money to keep my home " going," 
not in the lap of luxury, to be sure, but at 
least well enough to ward off hunger and 
starvation ; and I was also more than pleased 
to find that my audiences were most enthu- 
siastic about my voice and my rendering of 
some little Neapolitan songs. 

So, while working steadily in this humble 
manner, I saved up as much money as 
possible every week — which, in the circum- 
stances, you can doubtless quite understand 
was a very small amount — and when I could 
afford it began to seriously take up the study 
of music and singing during the day, per- 
forming all the time in the caji chantant at 
night. The work was very hard, but after 
three year? of steady grinding I was rewarded 
by being given the pari of Mimi in " La 
Boh&ne " at the San Carlo Theatre in Naples 
— the cast of. tfhich included, by the way, 
the celebrated: Bonci. Since then I have 
sung in opera in many parts, of, the, world. '; 

But Paris was to see the' turning-poihtrhi 
my career for which I had been so earnestly 
longing, and for which I had been striving so 
hard, for in that city, after once figuring in 
the programme at the Folies Berg&re Music 
Hall, 1 was engaged for three trial perform- 
ances as prima donna in Massenet's " Thai's " 
at the 0p6ra. Happily I scored a consider- 
able success, and was forthwith included in 
the cast. 

Shortly afterwards I made my dibut in 
New York, taking the leading part in 
Giordano's famous opera " Fedora," and 
before leaving that country fulfilled engage- 
ments as Manon Lescaut in the Puccini 
opera, Nedda in " Pagliacci," and Mimi in 
" La Boh£me " ; but — well, I am sure readers 
of The Strand Magazine do not wish me to 
treat them to a long account of my profes- 
sional career. Suffice it to say, therefore, 

that, having once succeeded in planting my 
foot on the ladder leading to success, I think 
I may say that I have since done my utmost 
to deserve any small success that I may have 

Do I ever think with reluctance of those 
far-away days when I used to sing and dance 
before an audience of roaming children in 
the streets adjoining the Piazza di Spagna? 
Most certainly I do not ; and why should I ? 
Surely it is better to earn one's humble 
honours than to " come into one's own " by 
mere accident of birth or by influence which 
is denied to one's fellow-artistes. No ; that 
I have had to work for any success that I 
may have attained — and work hard — is 
something on which I shall always look back 
with a feeling of real pride. 

Marie Lloyd. 

From remarks I have 
S*?* en yf y often heard made there 

Half" Crown wou, 5f see r m to ** a ]«*> 
an Evening, number of members of the 
general public who are under 
the impression that I sprang into whatever 
fame I may have attained without having 
really to do any hard work at all. As a matter 
of solid fact, however, such is very far from 
being the case, and I can still recall the times 
when money and I knew each other not, and 
when — worse still — my prospects of being 
able to earn even enough to provide myself 
with the bare necessaries of life were remote 
in the extreme. 

Still, I can at least boast of having attained 
the proud position of manageress (save the 
word !) very early in life, for when I was thir- 
teen I enjoyed the distinction of being the 
manageress of a Band of Hope ; and the 
theatre of my first maiden effort was the 
schoolroom of Fairbank Church, New North 
Road, London, in the fashionable end of 
rustic Hoxton, where the hooligans come from. 
By dint of making more promises in an hour 
than most people do in a year, I had induced 
a number of other girls, fellow-members of 
the Band of Hope, to join with me in planning 
an entertainment which was to be given on 
behalf of the Nile Street Mission. 

If a lie is worth telling it is worth telling 
well, and so, with a delightful sense of our 
own importance, we called ourselves the 
Fairy Bell Minstrels, and our performance 
must have been simply wonderful. In fact, 
it was nothing more or less than a case of 
teetotalism set to music. A certain man in 
the audience who faa<J managed to force his 




way in without a ticket , by the simple precau- 
tion of getting his friend to engage the door- 
keeper's attention while he " subterfuged " 
by, had brought a bottle of whisky with him, 
in case he might feel thirsty ; but when I 
sang a"beatitiful ditty, with ihe soul-stirring 
title of i( Throw Down the Bottle and Never 
Drink Again/' he quickly and unostenta- 
tiously hurled the bottle at his luckless wife, 
and in stentorian tones declared that he 
would never touch intoxicating liquors again. 

Ah, me ! Those were indeed terribly hard, 
struggling days j when my earnings were very 
conspicuous by their entire absence; but, 
despite the fact that my parents wished me 
to take to other occupations, I resolved to 
make the stage my profession ; and so about 
three years after my scintil- 
lating triumph in the " Fairy 
Hell " troupe of minstrels I 
appeared at the Grecian 
Music Hall f and sang — my 
friends called it something 
else — two plaintive ballads 
entitled "In the Good Old 
Days Long Ago " and u When 
the Robins Nest Again," 
They were terribly serious 
songs, and I nearly got 
locked up for singing them j 
for I afterwards discovered 
that the " performing rights " 
in them had been strictly 
reserved to certain popular 

Still, as luck would have 
it, a gcnilcman who had 
witnessed my discomfiture 
at the Grecian promptly 
engaged me to appear the 
sime evening at the Rose- 
mary Branch, of which 
he was the proprietor. So, 
with the inspiring prospect 
of being able to earn still 
another whole half a crown — 
an unkind critic said I ought 
to have got **five years for singing at all— I 
packed up my little bundle of stage -clothes, 
slung them on my should er, and off I hied 
myself to the Rosemary Branch, for all the 
world like some Dick Whittington in search 
of a fortune. 

Yes , indeed, those days were very hard 
ones ; but I can remember the delirious 
delight I felt when my one night's engagement 
was extended to a whole week at the colossal 
salary of thirty pence an evening. I quite 
came to the conclusion that I had reached 

the zenith of fame and fortune, for I was 
suffering from a very severe attack of stage- 
mania. But as for stage- fright, I knew it not, 
In those days I could sing three new songs a 
night without a shiver. Now I am ill a week 
before I sing a new song* It touches the 
incomprehensible, does it not ? 

Little by little things at last began slowly 
to mend for me, and I shall never forget the 
occasion when the late Sir Augustus Harris 
offered me an engagement at Drury Lane. 
It happened in this way. The great impre- 
sario had beard me sing " Wink the Other 
Eye w at one of the annual dinners of the 
Music Hall Benevolent Fund, and he promptly 
approached me for his forthcoming panto- 
mime at *' the Lane," " I want you to come 
to Drury Lane at Christmas/' he 
said. Naturally enough, I was in* 
tensely cxutal mul flattered b\ 
the offer, but I 

MARIE LLOYD. am thailkful tO 

Photo, bt EUit d Watery 


say that I was actress enough not to allow 
my excitement to betray itself. 

16 To Drury Lane ? M I repeated , nonchalantly, 
the while pretending to be wrapped in thought, 
11 Do you mean the Middlesex Music Hall ? " 
"No/' replied the astonished Sir Augustus ; 
" I mean Drury Lane Theatre. 11 I( I don't 
think I know it, 11 I said, puckering my brows, 
"Not know it?' 1 cried the manager, not a 
little bit enraged; " you must know it. It's 
the large building at the centre nf the Lane, 
with the soldiers and the sentry-boxes out- 




side," "Oh, is that a theatre?" I inquired, 
pretending to he intensely astonished. " I 
always thought it was a barracks." 

That first important engagement paved the 
way to whatever small success I may have 
attained to-day. But, oh, how I had to 
struggle ! who do not know the 
behind-the-scenes life of the vaudeville pro- 
fession cannot possibly realize what a strenu- 
ous fight an artiste has to put up to " come 
into her own." 

When I Was 

a Street 


August* Van Biene. 

I must frankly confess at 
once that I never look back 
upon my early struggles, far 
away now though they seem, 
with anything but feelings akin to horror, ior 
my struggles to 
attain the posi- 
tion f eventually 
succeeded in win- 
ning were so 
severe that more 
than once I 
feared that cir- 
would prove too 
strong for me, 
and that r like so 
many other 
s -archers after 
success j I should 
"gq under" 
before the battle 
was half over, 

My father, who 
was a soldier, 
and fought in the 
war between 
Holland and Bel- 
gium, died, leav- 
ing my mother 
and twelve child- 
ren totally un- 
provided for; 
and though, 
thanks to the 
assistance of two 
of my brothers, 
1 was able to 
receive some sort 

of education, my childhood's days are chiefly 
memories of poverty and want, At the age 
of eighteen I decided to make a name for 
myself in London, "where/ 1 said the citizens 
in my home in Rotterdam, ±l the gold is 
lying on the pavements. 5 * 
So little did I kngw> of the world that, if 





I did not literally quite believe the story, I 
nevertheless formed the idea that London 
must be an easy place to earn a livelihood in, 
and accordingly, with fifteen shillings and a 
few coppers in my pocket, I left home to win 
fame and fortune. The sole friend I had in 
London was the managing director of a well- 
known operatic company, a Mr. Van Noerden 
by name, who did all he could for me. Unfor- 
tunately, however, the only stock-in-trade I 
possessed was a very mediocre 'cello — I 
must mention that I was a pupil of the great 
Servais — and as I did not speak a word of 
English, and, worse still, as the season was 
already well advanced , with the exception 
of an occasional soiree, for which I received 
nothing (as I was told that I should have to 
make myself known before I could secure 
engagements), I did not get any 
work to do at all. 

The few shillings I had soon 
vanished, and 
one day my land- 
lady, to whom I 
ow T ed several 
weeks' board and 
lodging, turned 
me out into the 
streets, with 
nothing but the 
Velio and my 
confidence in 
myself to assist 
me in my battle 
against the world. 
What was I to 
do ? I was too 
proud to go to 
and throw 
myself on his 
bounty, for he 
had already told 
me that at pre- 
sent he did not 
see his way to 
find me engage- 
ments, although 
he had kindly 
promised to 
assist me in any 
way he could. 
Still ? I determined that at least I would be 
no beggar, and, disposing of a little locket 
which my mother had given me as a keep- 
sake, I raised a few r shillings with which to 
buy a stool. ;i With my stool and my cello," 
I thought, *' I shall be able to earn enough by 
playing in ilu <itretts to buy food and shelter,'* 




So I set out in, perhaps, the most wonder- 
ful " city of adventure " in the world, and, 
swallowing my shame, I chose a busy 
thoroughfare in the West-end — Rupert Street, 
Coventry Street — and, selecting a quiet corner 
off the direct line of traffic, I commenced to 
play. It is wonderful how hunger can inspire 
an artiste to put forth his best efforts. I don't 
think I ever played better in my life than on 
that chilly morning when I sat down to try 
to earn enough to buy myself a meal of some 
sort, for I had not tasted food for nearly a 
day and a half. 

At first but few people noticed me, but 
after playing at intervals for an hour or so a 
small crowd collected, some of the members 
of which, in the kindness of their hearts, 
threw a few coppers into my hat, which I had 
placed on the pavement in front of me. 
" Chink, chink, chink," I heard the coins 
drop in one by one, and when I had collected 
a whole sevenpence I realized that I was at 
least wealthy man enough to buy myself a 
good square meal. So, with bitter tears in 
my eyes, and a feeling of thankfulness in my 
heart for the kindness of the poor to the poor — 
the " clients " who supplied me with seven- 
pence, I particularly noticed, were all of the 
poorer classes — I bowed to my Good Sama- 
ritan friends and hurried quickly away to a 
neighbouring coffee-house to spend the for- 
tune — for fortune that sevenpence seemed 
to me — I had so mercifully been allowed to 

For weeks I continued to play on the same 
" pitch," but gradually fortune again began 
to desert me, and at last I decided to try my 
luck elsewhere. I therefore went to Hanover 
Square, and, by dint of playing for hours 
daily, I managed to earn enough to provide 
me with shelter at night and at least one good 
meal a day. One evening while I was play- 
ing I remarked that a gentleman with fine, 
clear-cut features, and wearing gold pince- 
nez, had been listening to me for quite a long 
time. When I finished one piece he would 
turn away and appear to be wrapped in 
thought until I had played another ; this he 
did repeatedly, until, at the end of half an 
hour, addressing me in French, he said : 
" How is it, sir, with your exceptional talent, 
that you play in the street ? " 

" I play for bread — not for pleasure," I 
replied, sadly. 

11 You are an artiste," he said ; " with your 
talent it is a thousand pities that you should 
humble your pride in this way." And, 
evidently overcome with emotion, he slipped 
some money and his card in my hand and, 

VoL xliil-H. 

hurrying away, said, as he patted me kindly 
on the shoulder, " Come round and see me 
in the morning — and don't despair." 

The name of my benefactor was Sir — then 
Mr.— Michael Costa, the Conductor-in-Chief 
of Covent Garden, the wonderful home of 
Art of which I had read so often, but of which, 
after weeks of playing in the street, I had 
never dreamed of ever entering as an 

The next morning I saw Costa, who asked 
me to play to him. " Can you read music ? " 
he said. " Of course I can," I replied. 
" What do you want me to play ? " " Play 
this," he said, as he handed me the 'cello part 
of the Tannhauser Overture. I commenced 
playing at once, until a draught from one of 
the windows blew the music from off the 
stand. I still continued to play from memory 
those difficult passages with which" every 
musician must be acquainted. When I had 
finished Costa congratulated me so effusively 
that I thought he was about to embrace me. 
" You are a great player," he said ; " next 
season I will engage you for my orchestra, in 
which, alas ! I have no vacancy for the 
present season." 

Many dreary days followed. I used to 
wait outside the Alhambra and other theatres 
in the hope that some of the players engaged 
might want someone to deputize for them. 
Occasionally I did earn a few shillings, but 
more often my services were bluntly refused. 
Eventually, after existing through many very 
" thin " weeks indeed, I secured an engage- 
ment at the Asseynbly Rooms in Margate to 
play in the orchestra, and also at dances and 
other entertainments, for two pounds ten 
shillings a week. 

And — well, after that things began slowly to 
mend with me. I duly fulfilled my engage- 
ments at Covent Garden as one of the 'cellists 
in the orchestra, and on the resignation of 
Costa I was engaged by his successor, Arditi, 
the great Italian conductor, as principal 

Since then the good fortune I had worked 
so hard to earn has never deserted me, and 
for many years work has been plentiful. But 
those weeks of playing in the street I some- 
times think will never quite fade from my 
memory, for even now I wake on occasions 
with a start in the middle of the night from 
a dream in which, tired and hungry, I have 
imagined myself setting out with stool and 
'cello to my " pitch " in Rupert Street. 
Suffering and hunger combined are great 
teachers ; the lessons they teach live in the 
memory fox ^ITY OF MICHIGAN 



Edmund Payne. 

When I Lived 
on Three 

Shillings and 

Four pence 

a Week, 

In the course of my career 
I think I may state, without 
fear of being accused of 
exaggerating, that I have pro- 
bably had as many ups and 
downs as any living actor. 
I have certainly never acted in the streets or 
on the sands ? but in bygone years that was 
probably not my fault, as in my early days 
I should doubtless have been only too pleased 
to do so had I not been 
afraid of offending the 
tender feelings ol the kpmund faynk. 
"gentlemen in blue,'* }•&**> .&* ft>ui*am .i 





ttut perhaps Gaiety audiences to-day may 
doubt my statement that to win success I 
huve had to endure many hardships which 
would probably have deterred me from 
remaining an actor had I not always felt the 
greatest confidence that one day I should 
11 arrive." So, fearful lest I may be accused 
of stepping aside from the straight ond of 

truth , let me tell you of an occasion when I 
played parts innumerable, cut down bur- 
lesques and dramas by the dozen, painted 
miles and miles of scenery, stage-managed 
until 1 was blue in the face, and very nearly 
starved into the bargain, I would mention 
that I starved only when I had nothing else 
to do — at other times I tightened my belt 
by two or three holes and worked the harden 
And for all this work the only salary I received 
was three shillings and four pence, I would 
dare swear that there is scarcely a street- 
singer living who has 
ever netted less than that 
colossal sum for a week's 
exuberant vocalisrn. 

When did this happen? 
It occurred when I re- 
ceived an invitation to 
accept the position of 
principal low comedian 
and stage-manager at the 
Theatre Royal* Risca, 
Monmouthshire. Travel- 
\ ling some distance by 

train, and sometimes walking, 1 even- 
tually arrived at Risca, and dis- 
covered that the Theatre Royal was 
merely a fairly large, permanent 
wooden building situated at the back 
uf an establishment where liquid re- 
freshment was occasionally sold if any 
of the poverty-stricken residents of 
this benighted spot could scrape 
enough coin of the realm together 
to jingle two or three coppers at the 
same time. 

At first I thought of returning 
home ; but my needs were desperate^ 
and I decided to accept the engage- 
ment for the sole and simple reason 
that to keep alive one must have the 
wherewithal to supply food; and as 
I did not possess that, it struck me 
that it would be a futile policy to 
think of going anywhere else — and 
then to " solve the great secret " 
while going there. 

So I stayed, though I confess 
my feelings — when I saw the differ- 
ence between the Theatre Royal 
it and the Theatre Royal 
as it actually was— were painful in the 
extreme. I hiid pictured myself being greeted 
at the stage-door by a polite doorkeeper. 
Instead, however, as I entered the wooden 
hut , the only greeting I received came from 
a dirtv-lookin^ individual with well-ventilated 

M toffi8fftWfilE tetf° rt clay "— 

as 1 imagined 



from the malodorous, unsavoury smell of his 
high-class tobacco he must have been smoking 
something given him by the property-man — 
who remarked, in a mixture of square-faced- 
gin-and-won't-work sort of voice, " Are you 
the new actorist ? " I greeted the low fellow 
with a haughty stare, and passed on with 
dignified mien towards the entrance of this 

But I will refrain from harrowing your 
feelings by describing the sufferings I went 
through at Risca. Suffice it to say, therefore, 
that my biggest week's salary the whole time 
I was there was three shillings and fourpence. 
I had arranged to go in with the manageress 
on " sharing terms/' but more often than not 
there was nothing to share; out of which 
princely remuneration, which by a simple 
calculation you will find works out at some- 
thing like fivepence three farthings a day, 
I had to dress myself, pay my landlady, pro- 
vide myself with breakfast, lunch, tea, and 
supper, and pay my getting-about expenses. 

As far as the breakfast, lunch, tea, and 
supper were concerned, it was something 
like poor old Dan Leno's swagger set of apart- 
ments at the seaside — when you were in the 
kitchen and wanted to go into the drawing- 
room you simply stayed where you were. 
My breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner, and supper 
happened all at once, as it were, and when I 
wished to lay the table for lunch all I had to 
do was to leave the breakfast things on the 
table in the morning. 

Yes, those were rollicking, merry days 
indeed ; and, as a matter of fact, I don't think 
I should have lasted out the final fortnight — 
there was a pretty little churchyard at Risca 
which quite took my fancy — had it not been 
for the generous heart of the son of the local 
baker in the High Street, who each week 
surreptitiously sneaked, on my behalf, a 
large seed-cake and half a pound of butter, 
in return for which I gave him one of the most 
comfortable seats in the front row of the 
stalls, where he couldn't be seen from the 

Happily, however, those lean days proved 
to be the turning-point in my career, for one 
glorious afternoon the manager of the Victoria 
Theatre at Newport, who was round on a 
bill inspection tour, happened to look in at 
the " Theatre Royal " during my impersona- 
tion of Caliban ; and he was so struck by 
my performance — he was also struck by 
some pieces of rotten wood which fell from 
the roof as he was watching the show — that 
he engaged me on the spot to play the Old 
Man of the Sea at the Victoria Theatre, New- 

port, at the unprecedented salary of one 
pound six shillings a week. I almost had a 
fit when I heard this offer, but a piece of stale 
seed-cake pulled me round. 

And from then things started to 
improve. Engagements cropped up quite 
frequently, and I think I may say that I 
never afterwards looked back. By the same 
token, I never wish to try to live on three 
shillings and fourpence again. I believe it 
was the effort to do so which robbed me cf my 
good looks. 





I wonder whether any 
When I reader of The Strand 
Starved. Magazine has ever ex- 
perienced the pangs of 
starvation ? I most sincerely hope not, 
for, as one who has literally starved, I 
can truthfully say that I can think of 
no experience quite so utterly, hopelessly, 
terribly gruesome. Many people, I am well 
aware, have reason to complain of the pangs 
of poverty. But poverty and starvation 
may almost be said to be as wide apart as 
the two poles. That is why, although I have 
learnt to feel genuine sympathy for the poor, 
I, nevertheless, feel a thousand times more 
sympathetic to those of the poor who know 
what it is to starve. 

But let me tell you how it all came about. 
To-day, happily, those never-to-be-forgotten 
times when food and I were strangers are 
enshrouded in the mists of long ago ; but, 
even so, I still sometimes think with feelings 
of horror of those days when I was so down- 
cast and destitute that I feared greatly that 
before long a coroner's jury would be com- 
pelled to pass the dread sentence on my 
remains : " Death by starvation." 

Ever since I was a tiny lad it was my wish 
to go on the stage. My father, however, 
willed that I should go into business — and 
thus, shortly after I was twenty-one, I set 
out for Paris to eat out my heart in a bank. 
Suddenly, however, financial misfortune over- 
took my father, and, as we were all practically 
ruined, I begged him to allow me to go to 
London to retrieve the family fortunes as a 
singer. At first he demurred ; but I only 
begged the harder, and at last he gave way, 
on my stipulating that I should only sing on 
the concert platform. I agreed to do this, 
and I kept my promise, too — but at consider- 
able cost to myself. 

Arrived in London, I soon spent the few 
pounds I hcd without even a prospect of 
^engaremenls con in* my way. Having spent 




my last penny, I proceeded to pawn my 
belongings one by one in order to purchase 
the necessaries of life. First my stud and 
links went, then my overcoat, then my dress 
clothes, and so on, garment by garment^ until 
all I had in the world in the way of clothes 
was the suit I stood up in* 

Things went from bad to worse, I had 
come to London to make my fortune. Instead, 
I starved. Once for three whole days I was 
without food of any sort, and many a time I 
gazed with longing eyes through the windows 
of eating-houses and pastry-cooks hoping that 
some observant customer might see and 
recognize the staging man who stood without, 
I was too proud to beg, and I preferred the 
cold streets to the indignity of the workhouse, 

I was almost giving 
up the struggle — well, 
never" mind how — 
when one day a friend 
gave me my chance to 
sing, in the shape of 
an engagement at an 
At Home given by the 
Duchess of Teck at 
Richmond. At the 
time I had not a re- 
spectable suit in which 
to appear s but, hap- 
pily, a veritable guar- 
dian angel in the form 
of my landlady con- 
sented to re- 
deem a suffici- 
ent number of 
my clothes to 
enable me to 
seize my 
chance, I sang 
at that At 
Home, and be- 
fore I left, with 
gold in my 
pockets, I had 
received no 
fewer than five 
offers — need 
I say how 

eagerly I accepted them !— to sing at various 
private houses. 

And when did the turn in my fortune come ? 
When I sang at Mr. George Grossmith's house 
— I always regard that as the occasion 
which gave me my first really upward step 
in life. Mr. Grossmith was kind enough to 
recommend me to Mr. George Edwardes for 

phoiy. hjt RiiilLnykum. 




by Google 

an engagement in " The Artist's Model/* 
which was about to be produced. Mr. 
Edwardes engaged me, and 1 duly appeared 
at rehearsals. 1 cannot give details, for they 
are unprintable, but in my ignorance I man- 
aged to convert a certain word I had to speak 
into a highly improper one. I delivered it with 
the utmost distinction and gusto, and then 
there was a terrible silence, I felt instinc- 
tively that I had " put my foot in it," but 
what could I do ? Then somebody laughed, 
then another^ and at last even Miss 
Marie Tempest gave way and joined in 
the peals of mirth that filled the empty 

Presently Mr. Edwardes came up and, 
taking me aside, he said kindly, but 
plainly 3 " Look here, 
my boy, I'm afraid 
your English is a bit 
too original for us^ 
and that you will have 
to go," 

After I left the cast of 
"The Artist's Model" 
engagements became 
quite f r equ en t, and 
since those days my 
professional career has 
passed along smooth 

Ah, well ! A thou* 
sand thanks that 
those days are mere 
shadows of 
the past. 1 
am happy to 
say that in 
my memory 
of them there 
is no bitter- 
ness. There 
is a beautiful 
French pro- 
verbwhich tells 
us, " II faut 
souffrir pcur 
etre belle/' 
That applies to 
a woman ; the man who suffers, I think, 
at least leams one wonderful lesson — that 
of the never - failing kindness of the poor 
to the poor. I hope and think, therefore, 
that my sufferings have at least taught 
me to be human. After all ? it is not 
through years, but through tears, that we 
arrive at maturity. 

Original from 

An I 


lie Di 



Author of " The Kiss of Chance." 

Illustrated \>y Septimus Scott. 


T is too big a risk ! " 

The morning light was 
struggling through the 
stained-glass window of the 
doctor's consulting - room. 
In the patient's chair by 
the side of the large, flat 
desk at which the doctor sat with a worried 
look on his face lounged a dark, evil-looking, 
dissipated individual. In low voices they 

" Yes, it is far too big a risk. I dare not — 
and besides " 

With a hasty movement the man in the 
chair broke in : — 

" All risks are big, but you can accomplish 
nothing in this world unless you are prepared 
to take them." 

" What you say may be quite true," replied 
the doctor ; " but I am afraid — mortally 
afraid. Like most medical men who appear 
brave, at heart I am a hopeless coward. I 
can condemn a man to death with a stout 
look, and shiver all over with nervous appre- 
hension immediately that door closes behind 

" The stout look is all I am asking for. 
Look at the matter calmly. The facts are 
these. I have a cousin. He is hale and 
hearty ; boasts that he has never known a 
day's illness. He will suddenly develop an 
unknown malady — I will see to that." 

The doctor shivered. 

With even voice the other went on : — 

" He will come to you to have his case 
diagnosed. I will also see to that. Now, 
what earthly risk are you running in pro- 
nouncing his complaint to be fatal, and in 
your opinion incurable ? Why, even the 
biggest men in Harley Street make mistakes." 

" True. In the cause of humanity. No 
great advance in surgery or medicine is pos- 
sible without experiments," responded the 
doctor, nervously clasping his hands together. 

" Humanity ! " repeated the other, with 
a sneering laugh. " In the cause of their 
own reputations. Think how many poor 

devils have been cut up for neither rhyme 
nor reason. Cause of humanity, you call it. 
Cause of humbug ! " 

" Be that as it may, viewing it in the worst 
possible light, it is surely a more noble cause 
than the one you are now asking me to 

" Now stop a moment. Is it ? Are we 
not digging right at the root of the very tree 
upon which such theories or principles hang ? 
I mean the tree of knowledge. Let me put 
it in this way. I come to you with -an idea. 
It is not a new one, I admit, but I don't 
believe it has ever been proved. Is it worth 
nothing to know whether a man can be killed 
by suggestion ? In any case it is not going 
to be fruitless research for you. Here is the 
money— not two or five guineas surrep- 
titiously left on your consulting table, but 
one thousand pounds in crisp, ear-stimu- 
lating Bank of England flimsies." 

The doctor sighed. His face looked tired 
and worn. 

" I dare not do it," he said, half-heartedly. 

The other man picked up his hat and his 
stick which lay on the floor at his feet. 

" So be it," he said ; " but don't forget 
settling day is next Wednesday." 

" Oh! why did I ever buy those accursed 
land, scares ? What do I know about Cana- 
dian^llotments ? " 

To this outburst the other man responded 
nothing. He was studying the name of the 
manufacturer in the inside of his hat. He 
held it at an angle which hid the evil smile 
upon his face and the wicked glint in his 
shifty eyes, but he was studying the mental 
struggle of the doctor. 

" Well, I must go," he said, making a step 
towards the door. 

The medical man stood up. His breath 
was coming in quick gasps. 

"One moment," he said. "What if I 
agree to what you want and the — the experi- 
ment fails ? " 

" I have offered to pay you cash down. 
That means I trust you to do your best. If 
you fail I shall want to know the reason why." 
U N I V tK_>l It U r Ml L H mm N 



The doctor shivered, in spite of the fact 
that a huge fire spluttered and hissed in the 

" But even in that eventuality you will 
have had your money/ 5 wound up the other. 

" What if he refuses to tome to me ? " 

said to be good for a rise of five points by an 
outside stockbroker whose life he had saved 
by a very delicate operation, and who had 
given him the tip, as he expressed it, out of 
gratitude, was followed by a huge, unex- 
pected slump, caused by a panic in Wall 

'SO UK JT/ he sajd; * eiit w\ t kjrokt skttlinc; day is NEXT WEI1NKSDAY. 

" He will not refuse. I will see to that. 
Besides, he trusts you." 

The sneer which accompanied the latter 
part of the sentence caused the medical man 
to wince. All his better nature was in revolt 
against this scheming adventurer, but he was 
between the devil and the deep sea. An 
unfortunate speculation on the Stock Ex- 
change , the purchase of a large block of shares 

Street. All his hard-earned savings were 
swept away at one fell swoop, and a liability 
stared him in the face which he had no means 
of meeting. 

The dark-eyed man watched with passive 
countenance the mental fight. 

** Better ruin/' thought the doctor, " than 
dishonour," Then, il 1 can't do it," he said, 

" Very fel^ThdtfpPINled the other. " I 




wish you good morning," and, crossing the 
room, he opened the exit door. 

Just then from some room at the top of the 
house there came the peevish cry of a little 

The sound struck the doctor like a blow 
\ between the eyes. What would happen to 
\ his motherless children when his home was 
I sold up ? What would happen to his niece, 
who had so ungrudgingly looked after them ? 

" One moment," he exclaimed, as the back 
of his visitor disappeared through the door- 

At the call the man reappeared. 

" What is the matter now ? " he demanded. 

" Give me the money. I'll do it," said the 
doctor, sitting down at his desk and bowing 
his head in his hands. 

A sudden flush of triumph passed over the 
face of the other. Without a word he 
cautiously closed the door and took from his 
pocket a bundle of notes. These he care- 
fully counted. Rolling them together, he 
tossed them on to the desk. 

" There is the fee. It is a good one. Paid 
for once in advance. As I said before, see to 
it you do not fail." 

For a moment or two the doctor remained 
in his despondent attitude. When he looked 
up the room was empty — his tempter had 
gone. He stretched out his hand to pick up 
the notes, and then drew back. He felt at 
that moment as if the touch of them would 
burn his hands. 

Once outside the house the other man 
looked hurriedly up and down the street, 
hesitating as if which way to turn. Then 
he strode off at a brisk pace. At a corner 
outside a public-house he was joined by 
a rather seedy-looking individual, who had 
the appearance of a gentleman's servant out 
of employment. The cut of his clothes was 
good, but they sat badly on him. 

" Well ? " demanded this individual. 

" It was a stiff job, but I've got him. He 
will do it, so it is up to you to bring your 
trusting master to the scratch." 

The shifty eyes of the new-comer twinkled. 

" Good ! " he exclaimed. " You are a 
marvel. You can rely on me. In fact, 
things are already going well. He asked me 
last night if I knew anything about the 
efficacy of some pills he saw advertised in 
the newspaper." 

" And you responded ? " 

" You. bet I did. I told him he had been 
looking bad — real bad — for weeks." 

" What did he say ? " 

" He laughed. He is a tough nut." 
" Well, stick to it, and report progress to 
me. The usual address. I must be off now." 
And with a casual nod he departed. 

" He's a sport, is Gentleman Bert ! " 
muttered the servant, as he looked after the 
retreating figure with admiration in his eyes. 

It is the practice in some parts of Scotland 
for the man to be called more often after his 
farm than by the name he receives at the 
christening font. James Stanley was gene- 
rally known throughout his lifetime as " Old 
Stockando," and the epitaph, " he wis a dour 
yin," would have been fitting in the eyes of 
the people who knew him. He certainly 
ruled his family with a rod of iron. He 
brought up his three sons in a strict atmo- 
sphere. They feared, but they did not love 
him. " Hoo can a boy love the man that 
rears him ? " he had been heard to exclaim 
when someone had ventured to suggest that 
he played the Spartan father too well. The 
result of all his hardness could not, in the 
light of later events, be voted a success. 
James, the eldest son, had emigrated without 
a parting word to Australia. The old man 
did not live long enough to witness the success 
which business brought to the second, Tom, 
who had been the wildest of the trio, but 
who had ultimately settled down and achieved 
a considerable fortune by dint of hard, perse- 
vering work. The third son, William, had 
been a dunce at school, but had drifted into 
the ministry, that haven of the brooding 
youth who thinks solitary thoughts. " Old 
Stockando " had been a proud man the day 
he saw his youngest son "wagging his heid 
in a pu'pit." He thought that perhaps, 
after all, Providence had approved of his 
methods of upbringing. Heredity produces 
strange contradictions. The son of the wild 
Tom, who had married a travelling actress 
whose charms had first flashed upon him in 
his native village, turned out a quiet, well- 
behaved youth. It was a source of constant 
wonder to the Reverend William Stanley 
why his boy had so early shown evidences of 
development towards all in life he detested. 

Many an argument had the upbringing of 
these respective sons raised between the 
brothers. Generations come and go, but, 
like the wag of the pendulum, the arguments 
of man swing to and fro in a narrow space 
with the same steady monotony. The 
Reverend William came to the conclusion 
that in his son Bertie heredity was playing 
a sorry trick. Why should the offspring of 
a God-fearing, steady-living man and a 



douce, domesticated woman betray at an 
early stage such degenerate tendencies, while 
that of his wild-oats-sowing brother and a 
pleasure-loving woman mocked his efforts ? 
In the silence of his study such thoughts had 
often disturbed the even flow of his sermon 
for the following Sunday. At the age of 
eighteen the climax came. Bertie Stanley 
disappeared in circumstances which almost 
brought his father with shame to the grave. 
For years his * whereabouts were unknown, 
then, from time to time, vague stories reached 
his native place, but they were never to his 
credit. He had earned, it was said, the title 
of " Gentleman Bert " from the fact that he 
was able to live by his wits, debonair and 
careless. If there was a smart way of doing 
a crooked thing, he knew it. Always on the 
outlook for what he called the " gilded mug," 
it is easy to understand the feelings which 
possessed him when he learned accidentally 
in Australia that his father's eldest brother 
had just died, that he had turned out a very 
wealthy sheep-farmer, and, having never 
married, had left all his money to his brother 
Tom, or, failing him, to his brother William, 
failing him to Tom's son, and failing him 
to the son of William. It was indeed a 
strange stroke of fate that James Stanley's 
solicitor should impart all this news to 
the nephew of his dead client, without 
that individual betraying his identity in the 

The news had really taken Gentleman 
Bert's breath away. In a flash he realized 
that Leonard Stanley, the son of Tom, was 
all that now stood between him and this 
colossal fortune. One life barring his way 
to unbounded riches. All the way home from 
the Antipodes in the steamer it was his one 
absorbing thought. Casual conversation in 
the smoking-room one evening gave him an 
idea. The talk had turned on Christian 
science ; one speaker had expressed his 
opinion that most men could be killed by 
their imagination. Gentleman Bert was well 
aware that his clean-living cousin was what 
the insurance companies would designate a 
first-class life. He sat silent and listened to 
the argument. If it were true that a man 
could, by suggestion, be convinced that he 
was ill, surely, if the same methods were 
. employed, backed up by medical opinion, the 
experiment ought to be even more successful. 
The trouble was to find the doctor. A lucky 
chance helped him. He ran across an old 
acquaintance who lamented to him that he 
had repaid a medical man for saving his life 
by putting him on to a " bad egg " on the 

Stock Exchange. His quick mind soon saw 
the possibilities in that direction. 

It was, therefore, with a smile of satisfac- 
tion that Gentleman Bert left his cousin's 
valet, with whom he had made a nefarious 

It was six o'clock. The doctor ticked off 
the last entry in his daily diary with a tired 
air. Shutting the book, he sighed. He 
looked thoroughly worn out. Rising from 
his desk, he stretched his arms above his head, 
yawning as he did so. Suddenly the door 
opened. His man-servant hesitatingly stood 
for a moment with his hand upon the door- 

" There is a gentleman waiting to see you, 
sir. He says he has no appointment, but he 
asked me to give you this card." 

With a tired air, mechanically the doctor 
took the orthodox pasteboard and carelessly 
perused it. Suddenly he started. 

" Mr. Leonard Stanley," he repeated, 
audibly. " One moment ! Yes ! I'll see him." 

The man turned to go. 

" Stop ! " went on the doctor. " Don't 
show him in till I ring." 

" Very good, sir." The servant noiselessly 
closed the door. 

Gentleman Bert had kept his word 
much sooner than the medical man had 
anticipated. He was suddenly possessed 
with the necessity of pulling himself together. 
Never in all his experience had he been 
so overwhelmed with nervous dread. The 
thought of the coming consultation, the 
ignoble, despicable part he had promised to 
play, set his heart thumping. He clenched 
his hands in his endeavour to still its un- 
wonted beat. Crossing the room to a cup- 
board, he took therefrom a decanter and 
poured himself out a dose of brandy, which 
he raised to his lips with shaking fingers. 
Nervously he studied his face in an antique 
glass which hung over the mantelpiece. 
Then, hastily surveying the room, he came 
to the conclusion that the light was too 
brilliant. He switched off two of the electric 
lamps. Then, with a final effort, he pulled 
himself together like a man summoning up 
all his courage, all his energy, for a great 
ordeal. Another momentary pause, and he 
pressed his finger to the bell-push. 

Afar off he could hear its answering birr. 
Never before had that familiar sound brought 
this cold sweat to . his forehead. He had 
barely time to seat himself at his table before 
the door swung on its hinges and the voice 
of his servant announced : — 




" Mr. Leonard Stanley." 

From force of habit he rose up, 

A tall, athletic figure traversed the room 
with buoyant stride. 

The doctor felt his hand gripped with a 
force that belied 
the invalid, and 
heard a cheerful 
voice exclaim : — 

"I did not write 
to you for an 
appointment. I 
thought under the 
circumstances it 
was better not to, 
but " — with a 
laugh — M I daresay 
you have heard of 
me." Turning 
round as he con- 
cluded the sen- 
tence, he surveyed 
the room, " So this 
is where you deal 
out your death 
sentences ? It re- 
minds me of Col- 
lier's picture, but 
all the same it does 
not look like fitting 
quarters for an 
executioner. You 
have a prettv taste, 

The whole tone 
of the young man's 
voice was friendly, 
but what struck 
the doctor's prac- 
tised ear was the 
ring of health in 
its timbre* 

How could he 
upset that cheerful 
disposition with a 
may-be disastrous, 
death-dealing lie ? 

" You wanted to see me? " he managed to 
say. His tongue seemed to be sticking to the 
roof of his mouth- 

" Yes. The fact of the matter is, I am 
suffering from an incurable disease," 

The doctor could scarcely believe his ears. 
A wild apprehension gripped his heart. Had 
this young man discovered his nefarious bar- 
gain ? Or was the whole ghastly business a 
plot to ruin and disgrace him ? 

u An incurable disease ! " he 
" What makes you imagine that ? 


" Oh, there is no imagination about it/' 
was the ready response* "It keeps me from 
sleeping at night and haunts me by day. 
You are the one man in London who can put 
me right." 


For one brief moment the doctor eyed him. 

M Well ! Take off your coat and waist- 
coat and let me examine you/' he said, 
mystified by the young man's manner, but 
concluding that he must act professionally, 

" What for ? " was the reply. Then, 
noting the puzzled air of the doctor, he 
added : ts Oh, I see what it is. You are 
trying to sum me up. You are taking no 
risks. I daresay you are right. In all 
probability I should ldbftbensaine were I in 

e repeated. 



With a laugh he doffed coat and waistcoat. 

" Lie down here/' said the doctor, motioning 
towards a couch. . 

The young man stretched himself his full 
length, while the doctor took his stethoscope. 
Then he hurriedly sounded him. 

" Not a flaw — sound throughout/' was his 
inward thought. 

" Take a deep breath/' he requested, more 
from force of habit than any doubt as to the 

Then he placed his hand upon his heart. 
Its steady beat, regular in its throb, was in 
direct contrast to the raging tumult he could 
feel thumping in his own bosom. 

" That will do," he said. " Get up." 

The young man regained his feet with 

" And the verdict is ? " he asked, with an 
air of unconcern. 

" What possessed you with the idea 
that you are suffering from an incurable 
disease ? Tell me your symptoms," asked 
the doctor, after a brief pause. His mind 
was in an uproar. It all seemed so absurd. 
How could he tell this healthy, strong, 
robust young man that he was doomed to 
die ? Even if he did so, what a futile effort 
towards its accomplishment it would be. 

" My symptoms ! Loss of sleep — loss of 
appetite — an overpowering desire to know 
the worst." 

" Why did you remark a short time ago 
that I was the only man who could cure you ?" 

" I think you will agree that it is so. You 
are her guardian, so to speak," 

The doctor puckered his brows. " What 
are you talking about ? " he demanded. 

41 Ah ! I see what it is. You cannot sum 
up my case ; and yet there are more people 
smitten with my complaint than any other 
malady on earth." 

" What is your name for your malady ? " 
The doctor asked the question with surprise 
in his voice. This affair was beyond him. 

" Love, sir ! Love ! That is the incurable 
disease I am a victim of. I worship your 
niece Mabel. Hasn't she told you ? I came 
here to ask your permission to marry her." 

The doctor was staggered. He rubbed his 
eyes, as if to make sure he was not dreaming. 
But so do the tragedies of real life sometimes 
turn suddenly to the broadest comedy. 

" To marry my niece ! " he repeated. 
" What did you say your name was ? Leonard 
Stanley ! Ah. yes ! Now I know. You are 
the friend of John Faraday, who married her 
girl chum, Lucy. She has often spoken of 
you. I might have guessed/ 7 His voice 

seemed to him to sound afar off. He 
was astonished beyond measure. When he 
thought of the construction he had placed on 
the young man's call, at this unexpected 
development a great relief surged all over 
him. He felt as if he had just awakened from 
some horrible nightmare. He shut his eyes 
tight and inwardly thanked Providence for 
saving him from sliding over that moral 
precipice up which there is no reclimbing. 

" Your news is the greatest surprise of my 
life," he exclaimed. 

" I trust it is not an unpleasant one/' was 
the manly rejoinder. " I have known Mabel 
for six months. I know what she has been 
to you and your children." 

The young man's words immediately 
brought to the doctor the upsetting remem- 
brance of his present financial plight. Was 
there no way out ? 

" I should be the last to stand in the way 
of her happiness," he remarked, quietly ; 
" but I am afraid that never since she took 
charge of my motherless bairns can she be 
dispensed wkh less than now." 

The doctor rose up, crossed to the rug, 
and stood for a moment as if lost in thought. 
The young man patiently waited for him to 
go on, noticing that he looked tired and worn. 

" The fact of the matter is, I am in a devil 
of a hole financially. All this " — with a wave 
of his hand — " looks like being sold up. Who 
is to look after the kiddies then ? " 

Leonard Stanley listened quietly as the 
doctor unfolded to him the cause of his 
embarrassment. There was a smile upon his' 
face when he had finished. Placing his hand 
upon the elder man's arm, he remarked : — 

" You have examined my physical state. 
Would you care to* do the same to my bank- 
book ? A thousand pounds ! Don't let that 
worry you for a moment. You will have the 
money to-morrow." 

" I could not think of it," began the doctor, 

" Hush ! Not a word. Pay me back 
when you like, fix the interest at what you 
like. Say you consent to my marrying Mabel 
and call it quits if you like. I shall be satisfied 
either way." » 

The next morning Gentleman Bert received 
a registered envelope. It contained one 
thousand pounds in notes and a plain card 
bearing the words, " I cannot do it." With 
a frown he held up two or three of the notes 
to the light. Then, with the remark, " And 
they were such a pretty fake ! " he replaced 
them in the envelope and hurled the whole 




Tricks of the Cinematograph. 


HAT,*' things are seldom what 
they seem " is a well-known 
saying, but nowhere is it more 
true than in the cinemato- 
graph theatre. Here inani- 
mate objects come to life and 
human beings become as wood 
with such frequency and apparent ease that 
the spectator rubs his eyes in astonishment. 
" How is it all done ? " he asks. 

Through the kindness of Mr, Scott Brown , 
who has invented and taken many il trick " 
pictures, we will endeavour to explain how 
some of these are worked* Difficult and 
puzzling as they really seem to be, they are 
in fact quite simple and very easily performed. 
A trick picture is usually the combined 
efforts of the comic-plot writer and the expert 
cinematograph operator. The operator is 
continually puzzling his brains for new effects 
with the camera. He conveys these to the 
plot- writer j who works them up in the form 
of a very short story. When we see the 
finished production on the screen it is, to 
most of us, a work of complete mystery, 
and it is asked, "Are they really taken 
from life ? ,? We often see, for instance, 
omnibuses travelling at a speed of a 
hundred miles an hour, flowers which jump 
from a table and arrange themselves 
in a vase, or a man diving with the 
greatest ease head-first out of a river and 
landing on his feet on the bank* Once again , 
** How are these things done ? ,J 

In order to discover these secrets, per- 
mission was obtained to join a picture com- 
pany who were then engaged in the produc- 
tion of a film entitled " The Uncanny Scot/' 
The party consisted of a stock company of a 
dozen or more actors and actresses, a stage- 
manager, a photographer and some stage- 
hands. The work to be done consisted chiefly 
of outdoor street scenes, and a journey was 
made some fourteen miles out of London in 
order to avoid the unpaying audiences which 
such strange scenes always bring together. The 
plot of the picture in hand was given to us 
to read, and, though some of it was perfectly 
intelligible, the plot contained such mystify- 
ing notes as ** Stop," if Reverse,'* M Turn on 
stop/* and " Sub dummy." These were the 
stage tricks we had come to investigate. 

The work commenced outside a tobacconist's 
shop, and each scene was most carefully 
rehearsed, A youthful actor, as an errand-boy 
who was engaged in opening the shop, brought 
from it a dummy Scotsman in the act of 
taking snuff, a figure familiar to many 
Londoners, and placed it in position at the 
shop door. At this point the stage -manager, 
who was conducting the operations, blew a 
whistle, and instantly the boy remained 
motionless and the modus operandi of the first 
trick was revealed. 

The company understood by the whistle 
that they were to cease the slightest move- 
ment, and the pholoiTanhrr that he must 

ta ^(?Sm8n8biGAN 



The dummy of Lhe Scotsman was now re- 
moved , and an actor identically dressed was 
arranged in precisely the same position. The 
whistle went again and the boy resumed his 
work. When next passing the Scotsman he 
received a kick from him, which caused him 
to bolt into the shop in terror. The whistle 
now sounded again, and a further substitu- 
tion of dummy for man was made by the 
stage-hands, An actor- tobacconist came out 
of the shop, and the boy explained what had 
happened, but was dumbfounded w r hen the 
master turned the figure upside down and 
thus showed it to be lifeless. The scene 
proceeded, with 
many stops and 
changes from the 
live Scotsman to 
the inanimate 
dummy. Stopping 
the camera simul- 
taneously with 
the cessation of all 
animation ensured 
that the effect on 
the screen would 
be perfectly con- 
tinuouBj as, of 
course, the film 
would be run 
through without 
any break. 

Later on this 
Uncanny Scot had 
to run away, and 
w^as seen to bolt 
down a road, pur- 
sued by a crowd, 
right into the arms 
of two policemen. 
Here, again, the 
s top -whistle 
sounded , and 
those in pursuit 
came to a dead 
halt while the dummy was brought once 
more into use. The effect of this substitution 
is, of course, that the police are surprised to 
find their capture inanimate. 

During subsequent scenes, in which the 
police carried off the dummy, the latter, 
owing to the frequent use of the slop- whistle, 
showed alternately signs of life and lifeless- 
itess, The police dropped their load in 
fright, but, mustering up courage, they 
picked it up again, only to find that the legs 
had Iktonic st-paralcd Irom the body, a fact 
which caused them to retire to a safe distance, 
more mystified than ever* 


From q Photoffrdph, 

The film-plot read : lt That the figure 
must now join itself together, become animate 
slowly j and run out of the picture-range in 
the direction of the camera. The police to 
run in the opposite direction," 

To manage this, the photographer must 
turn the film backwards through the camera, 
and the scene must also be acted backwards, 
w r hich has the effect, when the film is pro- 
jected on the screen in the ordinary way, of 
reversing the position or order in which the 
individual pictures were taken, It follows, 
then, that the Scotsman runs backwards to 
the spot indicated; falls down, and the dummy 

is substituted* The 
legs and body of 
the dummy were 
then separated by 
invisible wires, 
care being taken 
to leave them in 
the same position 
as the police left 

Following this 
the Scotsman, 
being pursued by 
a crowd, suddenly 
stopped and, rais- 
ing his hand, con- 
verted the trousers 
and skirts of his 
pursuers in to kilts. 
The method in 
this case was the 
same as that em- 
ployed in the first 
scene. The crowd 
was brought to a 
sudden standstill 
with the whistle, 
while the stage- 
hands changed 
their clothes, 
meanwhile retain- 
ing their strange positions* Then the 
chase was continued. Many laughable 
scenes followed, including one in which 
the dummy was thrown into the river and 
apparently swam to the opposite shore and 
ran off. The film finished with the Scots- 
man dancing in fronl of a bottle of whisky, 
into which he mysteriously dissolved. This 
feat is accomplished by making two expo- 
sures on the same film, which is one of the 
simplest forms of cinematograph trick pic- 
tures. The bottle of whisky is photographed 
and the film wound bark through the camera* 

niM vv. 






the bottle and the film again exposed while 
the Scotsman dances before an absolutely 
black background , at the completion of which 
the light is gradually shut off by means of the 
stop in front of the lens, the image con- 
sequently disappearing by lack of exposure. 

Another amusing film is entitled " The 
Demon Dog," of which the plot reads as 
follows : — 

A young man buys a toy bulldog, brings 
it home 3 places it on the table, and goes off 
to sleep. His dreams are somewhat un- 
pleasant as he sees the dog suddenly grow 
bigger and roll its eyes. Seizing the poker 
he smashes it, but a bigger dog appears in its 
place. Another crash and the dog has 
vanished, but only to appear larger and uglier 
than ever. The man backs out of the house, 
but the dog follows him. He hurls at the 
animal everything he can lay his hands on, 
but without effect The dog relentlessly follows 
wherever he goes, After many episodes of 

f*TOin *] 

a comic nature, he rushes to the 
water's edge and jumps into a boat^ 
but as he is rowing out the dog ap- 
pears on a seat in front of him. He 
aims a blow at the animal, misses it, 
and falls into the water. Swimming 
ashore, he is greeted by an angry 
crowd, who hand him over to a 
policeman. While m their hands he 
sees the dog swim ashore 3 and he 
raves like a lunatic as he is led away. 
The reader who has followed the 
detailed description of the way in 
which " The Uncanny Scot J> was 
taken will be able to see vi ry 
similar methods are employed in this 
case. It is, in fact, entirely a matter 
of substitution, and two of the 

- CLA 




r ' 






I t J h>4<HP^lph.. 


Fr*m a Phatof/rtipk. 


accompanying pictures, showing the changing 

of a small dog for a larger one, will 

explain how the deed was done 

more clearly than any amount of 


The process of substitution is, of 
course, a very delicate opera '.ion, as 
the exchange is made in a boat, 
and every care has to be taken that 
the boat is not moved ; other wise 
when the picture is continued it 
would appear out of focus. The 
remaining picture of this set shows 
the three dogs used with such amus- 
ing effect in the various changes. 

Now take, for another instance, 
the case of a man running away from 
a crowd of people. You see a high 
wall directly] fl^ffpnt of him, and 

UIWfellTft ^t».N exdu;ment 



whether he will be caught. You watch the 
people gradually creeping up closer and closer, 
till someone is just about to lay hands upon 
him, when, to the surprise of all, the runaway 
vanishes completely through the wall and 
the breathless crowd find themselves in a 
heap before it. The explanation of this is 
very simple. Just as the crowd are putting 
their hands upon the fugitive the stage- 
manager blows his whistle. In an instant 
everyone^ with the exception of the runaway, 
stands perfectly still and the operator stops 
his machine. The man then simply runs 
out of the picture altogether. The whistle 
sounds again ^ the operator starts his machine, 
and the crowd run against the wall through 
which the fugitive has apparently passed. 

The standard rate of picture-taking with the 
cinematograph camera is sixteen per second, 
obtained by two complete turns of the handle ; 
but by deviating from this rule various weird 
effects can be secured. Thus, if the handle 
be turned at quarter speed, i.e., four pictures 
per second, while photographing a man walk- 
ing j the film, when shown at the standard rate 
(which will happen at the biograph theatres), 
must necessarily reproduce him walking four 
times as fast. In this way a motor-car can 
be shown travelling at a speed very much 
beyond the legal limit* — or a baby emptying 
a bottle of milk at a rate that would satisfy 
the most impatient nurse. 

Having given one illustration of the effect 
obtained by u backward turning," it will be 
seen that any number of tricks can be per- 
formed by the same method. If we pin a piece of 
lace or a stor;* mg to a board and pull the thread 
so as to unravel it, we obtain, when reversed, 
the effect of a thread mysteriously winding 
itself up into a pattern of lace, or of a stocking 

being constructed without the aid of needles. 
Again, suppose a photograph is cut up with 
scissors, and rearranged neatly on the table, 
and then surrounded with a border of flowers 
to which threads of cotton are attached. Let 
this now be photographed, an assistant, while 
the film is running backwards, pulling away 
the flowers by means of the cotton threads, 
and upsetting the position of the photograph 
by blowir.g away the pieces. The result 
will be reversed. Pieces of the photograph 
wi!l wait into the picture and arrange them- 
selves in perfect order. The flowers, magi- 
cally following up ; will complete the picture* 
Cotton or piano- wires, it may be added, play 
a large part in the mysterious movements of 
the stage properties one sees in trick pictures. 

By the aid of these few methods many 
magical effects are explained, but it must be 
understood that all the wonderful sights to 
be seen are not pure " fakes.*' Take the 
picture in which a man is knocked through 
the back of a cab ; or another where a cyclist 
comes head-first over the handle-bars into an 
opening in a road under repair. In such 
cases competent " knock-about " artists are 
employed j and sometimes many unrehearsed 
effects are the result, 

A typical example of the ever- popular 
humorous subject is one known as " The Heat 
Wave/' It shows the adventures of a man 
prostrated with heat during a spell of summer 
weather. His first effort towards cooling his 
fevered brow is to lie in the road under the 
tap of a milk-cart, and allow the fluid to 
stream all over his face and down his neck— 
a waste which is bitterly resented by the 
proprietor on his return. Later, he is seen 
gazing with envy at a large salmon peacefully 
reposing against a block of ice in a fishmongers 


|4 t* 

// 3 




jS*S«fttf\ -* - 


i it 

tfrvmal BOTTLBS OF LilNGER-BEIEK, [Phoioffrapfi. 

tJHWtRSITY OF fftWKffh ll **™*- 





Frum a Pkptofpaph, 

shop. Unable to bear the contrast with his 
own suffering, he flings the fish away and 
takes its place on the marble slab. His peace 
is soon disturbed, and then he seeks refuge 
inside a water-cart. Next an ice-cream 
barrow attracts his attention, and he fills 
the lid of the churn with ice-cream and 
places it on his head by way of a hat. This 
so incenses the Italian proprietor that our 
hero has to make a dash for life. The thirst 
engendered by his energy ran only be quenched 
by much liquid, and he purchases a crate of 
ginger-heer bottles and retires to a secluded 
spot beside a stream. After the twentieth 
bottle or so, the accumulated gas becomes 
too much for the human frame, and the poor 

wretch comes to an instant and shocking end 
in a violent explosion. 

The explosion is so realistic, and the victim 
is blown into so many pieces, that it is difficult 
at first thought to imagine how the affair is 
managed without injury to anyone ; but once 
more the explanation is a simple one, as the 
accompanying pictures prove. In the first he 
is seen drinking his last bottle of ginger-beer, 
while in the second he is on the point of 
explosion. Here the word "stop" is given; 
the actor then gets up, and in the next picture 
is seen watching gunpowder being put down 
for his own explosion, which is shown in the 
fourth picture. When you are watching the 
picture on the screen, however all you see, 
following the explosion, is a mighty splash in 

/■>■*« ff] 



/tvihh] INTO THE RIVER. IPhotwiwpK. 

the water, and a quantity of torn clothes 
falling into the stream. 

How is this done ? As our last picture 
explains, the victim, with an assistant, mounts 
a tree out of range of the camera, holding his 
clothes, shoes, coat, and waistcoat. After the 
explosion has taken place, the * l stop " is 
given, and he jumps down into the water, 
making as big a splash as possible ; and just 
as the splash is made the operator starts his 
machine, thus getting only the splash into 
the picture. Then down come the clothes, 
thrown by the assistant in the tree. The 
whole impression on the spectator is that the 
man has drunk, swelled, exploded into mid-air, 
and fallen splash into the river. 

It seems very simple , yet when reproduced 
the effect is both realistic and effective. 

HV are indebted to the Hepuotth Manufacturing Company \m ftoVLJf ^Mi*f M Itf faiWffg iht photo* 

paphs «*rt accompany ^IflfftRSITY OF MICHIGAN 

Mr. Bodkin, Zoologist. 


Illustrated by J. A. SkepkcrcL 

retiring from business. You 
observe the form of the verb ; 
I do not say he was about 
retiring or had retired, but 
that he was retiring; for, as 
a fact, the process was a long 
one. There need have been no difficulty about 
it ; the wholesale provision warehouse in the 
Borough worked very well in the hands of the 
remaining, and junior, partner, all the arrange- 
ments for cutting off the partnership had been 
completed, and Mr. Bodkin was free to enjoy 
his well-earned rest. A certain amount of 
capital of Mr. Bodkin's still remained in the 
firm for a few years, but it was not because 
he was anxious to watch over that that Mr. 
Bodkin would return to the office day after day 
and moon about like the uneasy ghost of 
the deceased partnership. The fact was that 
Mr. Bodkin positively couldn't retire all at 
once. Charles Lamb, in his essay, " The 
Superannuated Man/ 1 described Mr. Bodkin's 
feelings exactly, years before Mr. Bodkin was 
born. " I wandered about/' says the Super- 
annuated Man, " thinking I was happy, and 
knowing I was not. I was in the condition 
of a prisoner in the old Bastille suddenly 
let loose after a forty years' confinement. I 
could scarce trust myself with myself. It 
was like passing out of time into eternity — 
for it is a sort of eternity for a man to have 
his time all to himself. It seemed to me that 
I had more time on my hands than I could 
ever manage." 

Feeling like that, Mr. Bodkin returned to 
his office day after day, as I have said. But 
something had to be done if the retirement 
were to be made a reality ; and he began by 
arriving late and leaving early, and trying to 
persuade himself that he took a reckless joy 
in his unprecedented irregularities. He turned 
up later each day, regarding his late partner 
with a more and more waggish air ; and he 

left earlier and earlier, positively chuckling. 
He made the excuse, however, of -carrying away 
some papers in a bag, wifli a pretence that he 
would " look over them " after dinner; and 
his partner, careful to observe that the papers 
were of no importance, regarded the whole 
performance with respectful indifference. 

It was quite obvious that the gradually 
later arrivals and earlier departures would 
bring Mr. Bodkin's office attendance to vanish- 
ing point presently, and Mr. Bodkin was vastly 
troubled to contemplate home life with no 
office relief and no — what ? — hobby ! Bright 
thought — that was the solution, a hobby ! 
If only he had had some recreation of the sort, 
this slow breaking off with the office would 
have been unnecessary. 

This was the problem, then — to find a 
hobby. Mr. Bodkin walked from the station 
of his highly-respectable south-western suburb 
in an agony of eager thought. He had never 
had a hobby, and that is a sort of thing you 
can't improvise at so late a period of life as 
Mr. Bodkin's. He had never had a hobby 
since he had been a small boy and kept white 
mice and guinea-pigs, and — why, there it was ! 
Mr. Bodkin positively bounced with delight 
as the idea struck him ; absolutely and actu- 
ally bounced, on the pavement of one of the 
most decorous and respectable roads of that 
most decorous and respectable suburb. He 
even attracted public attention — or so much 
of it as the character of the neighbourhood 

There was the idea — not white mice or 
guinea-pigs ; that would scarcely do at Mr. 
Bodkin's age — but practical natural history ! 
As a boy, adding to his collection of white 
mice and cavi .s by aid of his scant pennies, 
frequently torn by agonies of doubt between 
another white mouse and a supply of lollipops, 
he had often resolved that when he was a man, 
with plenty of irr.oney, he would keep big 
animals, real curiosities — the creatures you 



saw in menageries or read of in books- Here 
he was at last s with leisure before him, and 
quite a respectable income to spend in it. 
Wasn't there a Rothschild who Icept the most 
extraordinary zoological garden of his own 
at Tring ? Mr. Bodkin was no Rothschild, 
but at any rate he had quite a respectable 
garden, and there was no reason why he should 
not keep a little zoo of his own, in a modest 
way. The more he thought of it the more 
he became convinced that his future destiny 
was to be a zoologist, and the more completely 
he persuaded himself that his whole previous 
life had been one 
passionate longing 
for this moment 
of freedom when 
he could return to 
the joys of his 
youth ? multiplied 
in the proportion 
which a tiger . 
bears to a white 

Mr* Bodkin 
beamed, slapped 
his leg, and almost 
skipped — wholly 
forgetting Mrs, 
Bodkin, by the by, in the excitement of 
the moment. And even while he beamed , 
and even while he forgot Mrs. Bodkin, there 
occurred one of those small happenings, those 
minute coincidences, that decide a man's 
fate. For Mr. Bodkin emerged on the side 
of the common , and in full sight of a most 
imiable-looking brown bear ! 

For a moment the sight of a brawn bear on 
Surblcdon Common struck Mr, Bodkin with 
astonishment ; it was the sort of thing one 
dreamed about ; and Mr. Bodkin, instead of 
slapping his leg, began to pinch it. The bear 
was sitting placidly by a tree, and as he gazed 
Mr. Bodkin perceived the state of affairs. 
For a pair of unmistakably human legs, in a 
pair of unmistakably human, if grubby, 
trousers, stuck out along the grass from 
behind that same tree, and on the other side 
just such another pair of legs in a precisely 
similar pair of trousers, and by the side of this 
second pair of legs lay a long pole. It was a 
performing bear in charge of two wanderers 
from sunny Savoy, and the pole and ail the 
legs, as well as the amiable-looking bear, 
were the property of the wanderers. 

Mr. Bodkin stopped and contemplated the 
bear with much interest. The bear, on its 
pari, seemed to regard Mr. Bodkin with some- 
thing not unlike an affable grin, Mr, Bod- 



kin's heart warmed towards that bear, in so 
far that he could even imagine positive affec- 
tion in its gaze, He thought of all the favour- 
able anecdotes of bears he could remember, 
and he recollected that Lord Byron had kept 
a bear in his rooms at Cambridge. He 
smiled ; and he could have sworn that the 
bear smiled back. 

Here, he reflected, was an opportunity for 
a; start on his career as zoologist 1hat might 
not occur again. It would be an easy and 
pleasant beginning : a large and (as a pet) 
an unusual animal, already tamed and made 

orderly, and. Mr. 
Bodkin was con- 
vinced, of the most 
pleasing, faithful, 
and amiable dis- 
position. No. it 
was quite impos- 
sible tor imagine 
an easier or more 
propitious begin- 
ning. Years of 
steady-going busi- 
ness habit may 
have concealed, 
but they could not 
alter, the fact thai 
Mr. Bodkin was of an impulsive dispo- 
sition. The idea of buying the bear on 
the spot seized him entirely ; as he walked 
toward the animal it grew irresistible ; and 
when at length he stood before the recumbent 
group he was in a positive fever of anxiety 
lest the natural affection of the proprietors 
for their bear should render a bargain im- 

The proprietors had been dozing, and for 
a little while failed to comprehend Mr. Bodkin. 
As soon, however, as they realized his inten- 
tions they proved very much awake, and it 
became clear that, however deep their affec- 
tion for the bear may have been, it was not 
of the sort to resist the attack of the proposed 
metallic solvent, There was bargaining, of 
course, but it chanced that Mr, Bodkin had 
cashed a cheque that very afternoon to supply 
certain heavy household requirements, and 
as soon as the price came within the sum of 
all he had about him the transaction was 
concluded. The merry Savoyards left the 
common well pleased, and Mr. Bodkin, duly 
invested with the pole of authority and 
encumbered with his bag and umbrella, 
found himself at one end of a chain, the other 
end of which was attached to a collar 
encircling the bear's neck. 

Now, as a ©fl^ffi atfrlfttf* Mr * Bodkin's 




enthusiasm had guessed the bear's character 
fairly correctly. He was a bear of placid and 
equable temperament, regarding the human 
beings among whom he found himself as so 
many useful and innocuous attendants, 
whose business it was to offer him buns and 
other aliment. But the human beings to 
whose society he was most accustomed were 
the sunny wanderers whose back view was 
now growing smaller in the distance. Having 
no clear understanding of the transaction 
just concluded ? the bear's natural impulse 
was to follow his late employers. But the 
situation was unusual ; the employers were 
walking off ? indifferent to him and his exist- 
ence, and the chain which had formed his 
chief visible attachment to them was now in 
the hands of a human creature of wholly 

with something to eat, turned and surveyed 
Mr. Bodkin with increased interest. Con- 
sidering his general appearance, it struck him 
that here was one of the sort of persons who 
occasionally yielded buns ■ and the way to 
get buns from this sort of person was to rear 
up on one's hind feet and open one's mouth 
readv to catch j w T hich he dclv proceeded to 

Mr. Bodkin viewed the performance with 
anxiety ; the bear blundered round , rose 
slowly to its full height, and then Mr, Bodkin's 
anxiety became positive alarm when the big 
red mouth opened to its widest extent. 

The situation was horrible. The sunny 
wanderers were out of sight and out of hail, 
and Mr. Bodkin was in charge of a voracious 
bear with an open mouth that seemed capable 

'■- /SV 



^ 1 


different appearance and apparent habits, 
who was tugging gently and doubtfully at it, 
with a view, it would seem, to diverting his 
attention from the fast-diminishing figures of 
his late firm- This fresh dissolution of part- 
nership, Mr. Bodkin reflected, was attended 
with certain difficulties, as his own had been. 
Somehow, as the sunny wanderers disappeared 
the bear seemed to look less amiable ; Mr. 
Bodkin chucked and clicked and smiled 
amiably, and tugged gently at the chain. 
He began to fear he had been a little too 

l< Poor old chap ! Good old boy ! 
Come along, then — elk ! elk ! " said Mr. 

The bear, with no ill-will to anybody in the 
world, and no particular interest in anybody 
except to know who would next present hirn 

of swallowing a middle-aged City gentleman 
at a single gulp. The whole transaction now 
appeared particularly foolish ; at that moment 
Mr. Bodkin would have paid anybody to take 
the bear away and keep it, but the common 
was deserted f and there was no eager com- 
petition for the honour and pleasure of possess- 
ing this great furry, unkempt , wide-mouthed 
ruffian who stood there as though expecting 
his shrinking proprietor to crawl voluntarily 
down his throat. There was a horrible 
temptation to let go the chain ; but what- 
ever happened then— whatever slaughter and 
panic — he would be legally responsible for ; 
and t moreover, Mr. Bodkin was not wholly 
terrified, even now — only a little doubtful 
and excited ; and to drop the chain would be 
to abandon all pretence of mastery. He had 
read a thousand times that the first essential 




.:,,T 7 // 



of man's ascendancy over an)' member of 
the brute creation was the conviction in the 
animal's mind of the man's confident superi- 
ority. Perhaps j Mr, Bodkin reflected, man's 
confident superiority might not he wholly 
incompatible with getting behind a con- 
venient tree when facing a bear of doubtful 
intentions. There was a tree close at hand — 
wkhin a few feet ; one of those, in fact, 

as his own had surprised Mr. Bodkin. The 
large mouth closed, bunless, the hind legs 
bent, the fore-paws dropped to earth, and 
the wholly unfed face assumed an expression 
of grieved perplexity. This was a wholly 
new and unaccustomed type of human crea- 
ture ; one with no buns ; one who got behind 
trees and peeped round from the other side 
in the most uncannv fashion. At first the 



which had provided the shade for the repose 
of the sunny wanderers. So Mr, Bodkin, 
with a masterly sidelong manoeuvre, still 
holding fast to the chain, plated the tree 
between himself and the most recent object 
of his affections. 

This stratagem surprised the bear as much 

jitized by G.QOgIe 

bear, in his turn, was disposed to be alarmed ; 
there might be something hostile in this 
unprecedented dodge. But nothing hap- 
penecL and on further reflection it occurred 
to the bear that this might be some curious 
new game of bo-peep which he was expected 
to learn for public exhibition. His memory 




went back to dim days of the past when he 
had learned to dance by dint of being led 
about on a hot pavement. Here, at any rate 3 
was no hot pavement. The man behind the 
tree was hanging on to the stretched chain 
still, and, considering all things, it seemed 
probable that what he wanted was to be 
followed round to the other side of the tree, 
*5o the bear rose and dutifully approached 
Mr. Bodkin, who manceuvred warily round 
the trunk so as to enjoy its full protection, 
Thus encouraged and confirmed in his theory f 
the bear persevered, walking round and 
rubbing his side against the trunk, the bark 
whereof he found agreeably rough to the hide* 
And as he walked Mr. Bodkin walked too^ 
but still at the length of the chain, and conse- 

desperately for help* The late bear-leaders 
had wholly disappeared, and, except for a 
single slow footstep along the road he had 
come by , the neighbourhood seemed empty. 
The footstep neared, and a man turned the 
corner, It was a workman with a bag of tools 
and a short pipe. To him Mr. Bodkin 
appealed eagerly, Would he hold the bear 
while he ? Mr. Bodkin, went in search of the 
sunnv wanderers ? 

" J Gld 'im ? " quoth the son of toil. " 'Old 
'im ? Not me* Tain't likely* That airvt 
my job, that ain't, ? oldin T bears. " 

" But I assure you there s s nothing to be 
afraid of," protested Mr, Bodkin ; " he's as 
gentle as a lamb — most affectionate creature," 

i4 Yus, ,! replied the toiler ; " might want 




> ~ 


quently now as far away from the tree as the 
bear had been in the beginning of the dance. 

So they revolved for several minutes, till 
the bear began to consider itself proficient 
in the exercise, and finally sat down with its 
back against the tree to wait for the reward 
of virtue. But this odd man seemed to be 
the least rewardful person the bear had 
encountered in its whole experience. There 
would seem to be not a bun, nor even a crust, 
on his person. Could it be possible that 
there existed human beings so lost to all 
sense of decency as to walk about the world 
wholly unprovided with eatables for bears ? 
It would almost seem so. 

Mr. Bodkin, on his part, looked about 

Digitized by GOOglC 

to hug me, No ? I ain't takln' it on. If he's 
sich a darlin' little pet, what dVe want to 
fetch the keepers for ? " 

1C I just want to consult them, that's all," 
explained Mr, Bodkin. " But if you won't 
hold him — well, here's a shilling. They've 
gone straight along the common side and up 
the turning at the end- 111 give you another 
shilling if you bring 'em back." 

44 That's a bit more my sort," replied the 
man ? absorbing the coin. u Up that way, 
says you. Right-o 1 " And he set off at a 
gentle— very gentle — trot* 

The bear sat and looked at Mr. Bodkin,, 
and Mr, Bodkin stood and looked at the bear. 
The mar. was a very long time gone ; Mr. 





Bodkin began to suspect that he was one of 
those in whose philosophy a shilling for doing 
nothing is preferable to two shillings earned. 
The bear began a deliberate survey and 
mental analysis of Mr. Bodkin from head to 
foot, with a view to discovering where he 
kept his buns* He passed over several 
likely, but uncertain , places ? till he arrived 
at the bag, which Mr. Bodkin had deposited, 
with the pole, on the ground at his feet. 
The bag would appear to be the very place ; 
the idea seemed so wry ^ood« and it struck 
the bear so very forcibly, that straightway 
he rolled over on to his feet and made for the 


As the bear advanced Mr. Bodkin retreated, 
wholly forgetting the bag, with his mind con- 
centrated on questions of strategy. The bear 
was now between his proprietor and the tree, 

and Mr. Bodkin, still on the retreat, was 
pondering sundry expedients for changing 
these relative positions when the bear arrived 
at the bag and seized it triumphantly. He 
sat on the ground and clawed at it impatiently 
till it opened and scattered its contents on 
the grass. Meanwhile Mr. Bodkin^ crouch- 
ing at the full length of the chain, had sought 
the shelter of his umbrella. 

It was in this posture that he was dis- 
covered at last by the late bear-owners and 
the toiler in search of his second shilling. In 
a trice the umbrella was closed and the bag 
— not undamaged — was recovered ; and in 
another trice, or thereabout, there moved off 
an imposing procession, with Mr. Bodkin at 
its head and the bear its conspicuojs feature, 
Mr. Bodkin, his confidence wholly restored, 
resolved many plans tor the future. Tibbs, 






his late chief warehouseman, should be 
retired from business also, and should join 
the new enterprise as keeper. And Mrs. 
Bodkin — but at the thought of Mrs. Bodkin 
Mr. Bodkin experienced an unpleasant start. 
In the excitement of his new project he had 
forgotten his wife and her (probably unfavour- 
able) views. So that it was with much 
trepidation that he entered his own front gate 
at last, and with a certain relief that he learned 
that Mrs. Bodkin was out. 

A tree stood in the stable -yard, and to that 
tree the bear's chain was secured by the aid 

the announcement till the morning, and to 
seize an opportunity when Mrs. Bodkin's 
usually austere demeanour was agreeably- 

And when the morning came he rose early., 
and with milk in one pan and scraps in 
another he made for the yard with a view to 
ingratiating himself with his pet before intro- 
ducing it to Mrs. Bodkin. He made for the 
yard j entered it, and almost dropped both 
pans at once. For there was the tree, and 
there was the chain firmly fastened round it, 
with a padlock whereof the key was in his 



of a stout padlock. The bear achieved his 
long-expected meal at last— a meal of carrots 
and dog-biscuit — and the sunny wanderers 
departed once more, with added baksheesh. 

At dinner that evening Mr, Bodkin tried 
hard to think of some agreeable way of inform- 
ing Mrs. Bodkin that tluTc was a bear tied up 
in the yardj but only succeeded in convincing 
her that there was something very suspicious 
and uneasy in his demeanour, and that she 
must keep an eye on him. Keep an eye on 
him she did, therefore, all the evening, 
reducing Mr. Bodkin to a state of extreme 
nervous discomfort, He resolved to save 

pocket ; also at the other end of that chain 
was a very large collar— with nothing in it ! 

Mr, Bodkin set the pans carefully down, 
opened his mouth wide and his eyes much 
wider, and stared at thirty-two points of the 
compass in regular succession, one after 
another. And it was quite a long time after 
that, even, before he could recover his wits 
sufficiently to conjecture that somewhere in 
the distant indefinite a pair of sunny wan- 
derers were once again in a position to sell a 
bear to any enthusiastic zoologist who would 
pay ready cash and show them where it was 
to be kept at night. 

We hope to give, from time to time, further experiences of Mr. Bodkin in founding 

his private "2dfr/ J 

rv v ^k r^nnnfr- Original from 


Another Chess Curiosity, 


I SL * « # i i 

AS I have already had occasion to show, the 
Xi variety of mating positions that can bo obtained 
from a selected number of chessmen, though that 
number be few, is one of the wonders of chess. More 
wondrous still are the many ways of mating that can 
be produced from the one setting of a particular number 
of men. So far, problemists have not given the matter 
attention, because, perhaps, it never occurred to them 
to do so, or, if noticed at all, was considered to be too 
difficult a subject to pursue. Nevertheless, it is not 
only quite possible, but easy to produce over a score 
of different problems from a set position — that is, 
one in which the men are not to be disturbed from the 
relative places they hold towards each other on being 
first set. Take, for instance, the seven men shown 
above and place them on the lower half of the chess- 
board as follows : — 

PKQBLENf No- i. 


Confined thus it is a three- mover, but placed on the 
upper left-hand side of the board it becomes a four* 
mover. Placed on the upper right-hand side changes 
it into a different problem, which is changed again 
when placed midway as follows : — 



Vol. *lm 


White mates in four moves 

Stranger still, by giving it the full liberty of tin 
board we obtain a different problem altogether in : — 


Bi v K, 

3 y Google 


White mates in three moves. 

This will be found difficult, but the solver will be 
rewarded by the liberty the key -move opens up for 
the Black kinp. What is curious about it is that it 
can be solved equally as well on being moved one 
square to the left or right, one square up or down, or 
one square in any direction diagonally. Moved 
horizon tally one square to the left gives :— 

White mates in three moves. 

This is by W, Geary, many of whose fine productioiis 
have enriched the chess literature of the present day. 
It is on similar lines to No. 4, but by moving it down 
one square a considerable change takes place, i^e. 1— 

White mates in three moves. 

The composition of IL Lehner. Those who have 
Solved the problems so far will be nonplussed over this, 
as the key- move is quite different to any of the others. 
Now move it one square to the right ana we get : — 

White mates in three moves, 

The idea is the same as that of No, 5, so there will be 
no difficulty about it ; but move it again one square 
to the right, and we have a different problem. The 
move necessitates the removal of the White pawn 
from the board ; nevertheless, it will not prevent us 
from continuing our series of problems* 

lite mates in three moves. 

Original Train 




This is not unlike one by the well-known composer . 
Dr. S, Gold, but not so difficult as many of his fine 
productions. Moving it up one square gives : — 

White mates in three moves. 

It, in turn, may again be moved up one square, 
bringing in order to continue our series with ; — 
White mates in three moves. 

Now transfer the position one square lo ihe left, 
bringing the Black king to K 3 and the complement 
of the men of our set position to their relative squares, 
and we have a different problem in : — 

PROBLEM No. to. 
White mates in four moves. 

It contains many near tries t and Ls so far interesting 
as showing how much a problem can be changed by 
simply moving it a little. Give it one more move to 
the left as a final one, and we have $— 

PROBLEM No, it. 


By giving the board a quarter turn to the left — 
that is, bringing the right side before you, and solving 
from it as you would from White's side — we have : — 
White mates in two moves* 

This Is a transformation from difficulty to simplicity, 
and, if allowable, would oftentimes be advantageous 
in playing a game. Another quarter turn to the left 
gives : — 

PROBLEM No. 13. 
White mates in two moves. 

Easy, isn't it ? The idea is of little account, except- 
ing to show how White can contend against two pa was 
passing on to promotion. One more quarter turn to 
the left produces : — 

PROBLEM No. 14. 
White mates in three moves* 

The key is a novelty, yet it is in conformity with the 
laws of chess. In any case it is the best that can be 
made bA under the circumstances.'* 

The set position may yield other problems ; it so, we 
will leave it to our solvers to find them f as we have 
given sufficient to illustrate our present instance, 

Solutions will be given in next issue, 







i, — r 


P— K 5 - 


B— R 5, etc. 

2.— 1, 


P— B 5 i 


Q— Kt 7, etc 

J.— I. 

Q— Ki t 

any ; 


B — K 4. etc. 


Q— Be, 

any ; 


Q-KKt i, etc 


Q-B 2, 

any ; 


Q— K Kt z, etc, 

6.— j. 


anv ; 


IJ KKi^.do. 


Q-Kt 1, 

P— B 2 ; 


K-B 5t etc. 


K-Kt 4p 



Q-Kt 3> etc. 

H K-Q 7 ; 


Q — B 2, ch, etc. 

9.— 1, 

K-R 3f 

K— B6; 


Q— R 2, etc. 

IO.— T. 

K— Kt 3 , 

K-Q 6; 


Q— QR6,ch t etc. 

IJ. 1. 

B— B i, 



K — Kt 2, etc. 

12, — I. 

B— BS, 

p-Q 5 ; 


B— R 6, etc. 

13-— J- 

0-K 3* 

P-0 5 ; 


Q-B 3f etc. 

White mates in four moves. 

The use of the While pawn is to prevent more than 
one key -move to be made in each solution. It pre- 
vents as many as six keys to No. 3+ 

Another Bridge Problem. 

By MVladimir Jc Rozing 

Hearts— King t queen, o, 5. 3. 
Diamonds — Knave, ^ P 
Clubs — 10, 
Spades— Ace, queen, 10, 6, 4. 

Hearts— Knave, 10. 
Dia monds — Ace t 9. 
Clubs — King, knave, | 7 

Spades — King, knave, 
*, 7, 1 


Hearts- 7 , 2, 
Diamonds— Qu een» 

10, ft 5, a. 
Clubs — 7, 6, 5, 3. 
Spade*- j t a. 

Hearts— Ace. B, 6, 4. 
Diamonds — King, G r 6, 3* 
Cluh-s— Ace, queen, B, 4. 
Spades — 9, 

A declares hearts* If Itads five of spades. A and B are tu 
make small slam* 




ChiK to 
Clubs 4 
Hcirts king ! 
Diamond* ace 
Hearts to ! 
S|j:tde^ 3 
Spades king ] 
Spade* 7 


Club^ 6 
Clubs ace 
Hearts 5 
Diamonds 4 
Hearts S 
Diamond* 6 
Diamonds 3 
Diamonds 9 

Clubs ? 
Club* 5 
Hearts 3 

Diamonds ; 
H e*n * knave 
Spades 4 
Spades 9 
Spades knave 
Clubs king 
Clubs queen 
Club* 9 


Clubs B 
Hearts 9 
Diamonds qn + 
Hearts queen 
Spades queen 
Spades 2 

The winning card in each trick is underlined, Tlic variations, 
depending on fhe opponent pipy, will be easily found. 


Tke Little Girl Wko 
Took Notice. 


Illustrated by Harry Rountree. 

HERE was once a father and 
a mother who had three chil- 
dren : Samuel, fourteen years 
of age ; Amelia Jane, ten ; 
and a baby of nine months. 
Now this father was a very 
clever man, and loved books ; 
and pretty little fair-haired Amelia Jane was 
the darling of his heart ; she was such a good, 
obedient child, also so diligent at her reading, 
writing, and arithmetic; and, above all, she 
began so very early to take notice. All these 
things naturally made her most interesting 
to her father. 

Samuel, on the contrary, was not clever or 
pleasant-looking ; as his father said, he 
resembled his mother in every way, and 
although he was much older than Amelia 
Jane, he could not do the sums correctly that 
she worked out without a single fault, nor 
could he read as easily, while as for his hand- 
writing it was simply shocking. 

But Amelia Jane, being such a good child, 
was scarcely at all conceited, and she was only 
a very tiny bit pleased when, one day after 
dinner, her father gave her some strawberries, 
and refused Samuel any ; and really and 
truly she would not have been at all pleased 
at her brother's disappointment, if Samuel 
had not called her a stupid little duffer that 
morning, because she did not throw the ball 
the right way when they were playing cricket 
in the garden. 

The morning was fine, but after dinner it 
began to rain heavily, and the family party 
were gathered together in the dining-room; 
the father in the big arm-chair, the mother 
opposite, nursing the baby ; Amelia Jane, 
between the two, industriously knitting ; and 
Samuel looking out of the window. They were 

Digitized by L*OOgle 

all very quiet, for the father was reading, and 
he could not bear any noise at such times ; but 
presently he laid his book down and spoke, 
and then the mother and Samuel and Amelia 
Jane all gave a big jump together, for the 
father had a very, very loud voice, and spoke 
very sharply. 

" We are dull this afternoon," he cried. 

" It is so very wet, you see/' the mother 
replied, timidly, as she resettled the baby, 
which she had nearly dropped when the father 
spoke and startled her so. 

" It's a right down beast of an afternoon," 
Samuel grumbled. 

" And what does Amelia Jane say about the 
weather ? " the father inquired, in ringing 

" That sometimes it is pleasant to have a 
wet afternoon, dear papa," the little girl 
answered, smiling. 

" And why pleasant, Amelia Jane ? " 

Now Amelia Jane was a truthful child, but 
she preferred to say nice things whenever it 
was possible. 

" I like a rainy afternoon, sometimes/' 
she replied, sweetly, after a little pause, 
" because then you stay at home, dear papa, 
and we can all sit quietly together." 

" Well done ! " the delighted father shouted. 
" That's a capital answer ; and to reward 
you, Amelia Jane, I'll tell you all a story. 
Come, my good little girl, bring your low 
stool and sit quite close to me. And Samuel, 
don't fidget; you know that I cannot bear 

They were some time settling themselves, 
and the kind father became just a trifle 
worried and impatient, but presently he was 
able to start. 

" Many years ago^g^the # days of the 




"'many years ago, in the pays of the 


Druids ,J he commenced, his fine voice 

echoing through the room. And then sud- 
denly, with a stifled gasp and a shudder, 
Amelia Jane dropped her knitting and lifted 
up her hands. 

" Amelia Jane/' the father .said, rather 
angrily* '* vou are not attending, my darling, 
I fear!" 

* { I am — I really am," the little girl pro- 
tested, in great distress. u But — but — dear 
papa, I saw a very large black-beetle run into 
dear mamma's pocket ; and as I know she 
doesn't like them, I thought " 

It was really astonishing how very long it 
took to get that black-beetle out of the 
mother's pocket ; it seemed determined to 
remain in a corner at the bottom of it ; and 
the father thought it wouldn't matter much 
if it had been left there, but this the mother 
would not hear of, 

When all was quiet, however, the good 
father scolded his little favourite, Amelia 
Jane, severely for interrupting him, and when 
the child admitted frankly that she really 
feared j if she saw anything more of the kind, 
she might be tempted to mention it again, 
he cried, quite harshly: — 

11 Then we'll guard against that. I cannot 
tell a story, especially a true tale, if people 

do not give me all their attention 


thereupon he took out his handkerchief and 
tied it tightly round Amelia Jane's eyes, 

But the mother said very kindly to the 
little girl ;— 

M Do not be unhappy, Amelia Jane ; I 
am very glad you did mention the black- 

beetle, for if I had put my hard into my pocket 
and felt it wriggling, I am nearly sure I should 
have died at once." 

So, as she loved her mother dearly, Amelia 
Jane was comforted, and she folded her hands 
quietly, for now, blinded by the thick hand- 
kerchief, she could not see to knit. 

" Many years ago, in the days of the 

Druids " the father recommenced, a little 

louder than before, " Good heavens, Amelia 
Jane ! 5? 

The child was leaning forward, and opening 
and shutting her mouth silently in a very 
peculiar way. 

" What is the meaning of this disgraceful 
conduct, Amelia Jane ? " the father thundered, 
" How is it possible for me to proceed ? " 

" I am so very sorry, dear papa/* the child 
responded, meekly, l ' but baby, he must be 
choking , I can hear him gurgling/' 

The baby had, indeed, almost swallowed 
his coral, and the mother had not noticed — 
she was attending to the father's story ; but 
still, as the father said, it was really quite 
impossible to get on with his tale if Amelia 
Jane interrupted continually. Therefore, 
Amelia Jane's ears must be stopped up with 
cotton -wool. This being done, the child 
found she could still hear her father, he spoke 
so very loudly, but nothing else, and so the 
father started again. 

by Google 


Original from 



"In the days of the 

Druids " Then his 

face grew very red and 
he stopped. 

Once more Amelia 
Jane was tremhling 
with agitation, while 
her nostrils twitched in 
the strangest fashion. 

11 Again, Amelia Jane, 
again t " the father 
cried, choking w r ith 

11 This time you must 
forgive me, my dearest, 
dearest father/' she 
pleaded, " for I feel sure 
that dear mother's bed- 
room is really on fire ; 
I am quite sure now 
that I can smell the 
blankets burning/' 

It was two hours 
before they subdued the 
flames, which had 

taken firm hold upon the bedding, for the 
poor little girl had not liked to interrupt until 
she was quite certain her nose had not 
deceived her. 

Presently, however, they were able to sit 
quietly down again ; but after that there 
was a further delay, for the father firmly 
declined to go on with his historical story 
until a case had been made with brown paper 
and paste to enclose Amelia Jane's nose. 
This nose-case tied with strings at the back 
of the head, and 
the child looked 
very odd with a 
sort of stiff brown 
beak j the band- 
age over her eyes, 
and the big tufts 
of wool in her 
ears \ but she did 
not murmur, and 
once more the 
father took up 
the tale. 




But he had not 
spoken two words this 
time when the little girl 
leapt to her feet. 

"Oh, father," she 
cried, in an agony, "I 

And then the father 
really lost all control 
of his temper, 

M I refuse absolutely 
to hear what you felt, 
Amelia Jane," he thun- 
dered, (t We have been 
told what you saw, and 
heard, and smelt ; that 
is quite sufficient. Give 
me your handkerchief, 
mother — mine is round 
her eyes; this child 
must be gagged , she is 
quite unendurable. If 
I had gagged her at first 
1 should have avoided 
all this annoyance." 
He tied up the patient little girl's mouth, 
and sat heavily down again. 

"In the days ot the Druids " he 

shouted, and then there was a sudden, awful 
crash. The next moment the poor father 
lay on his face on the floor. 

The leg of the big arm-chair had broken off, 
and he had fallen in a heap. 

The doctor had to be sent for to plaster up 
his wounds, his nose being much injured* 
And when, presentlv, little Amelia Jane 

came to kiss him 
"good night/' 
she bent over him 
as he lay groan- 
ing on the sofa 
and whispered 
softly in his 
ear; — 

M That was 
what I felt ; I 
felt the leg of 
your chair snap, 
dear papa." 


Original from 


by Google 


By Henry E. Dudeney. 

Here is an interesting new domino puzzle. After 
playing a few games with si friend, f was idly making 
a square frame with the twenty-eight dominoes of an 
ordinary set, always placing them correctly, 6 against 6, 
2 against 2 f blank against blank, and so on, when I 




* ■ • 

■V - 


• 4 * * 


* * 

noticed that the top row and the left-hand column 
both added up 44. The pips in the other two sides, 
it will be seen, add up 59 and 32 respectively. It at 
once occurred to me to discover whether it was pos- 
sible so to arrange them that the pips in each of the 
four sides should add up alike* It can be done, and 
the puzzle I now* propose is to construct such a square 
frame (exactly in the form and manner indicated) so 
that all four sides shall correctly add up 44. Can you 
do it ? It calls for some little ingenuity, yet is so 
simple that any child can be at once interested in it. 


This puzzle is not diffi- 
cult, but it will be found 
entertaining to discover the 
simple rule for its solution, 
I have a rectangular card- 
board box, as in the illustra- 
tion* Hie top has an area 
of 120 square inches, the 
side 96 square inches, and 
the end 80 square inches- What are the exact dimen- 
sions of the box ? 

MaRV and Phyllis were pi ay in ;j some game for 
counters, starting with the same number each. In the 
first pa me Mary won twenty counters* but in the 
second fame she lost two- thirds of what she had in 
hand, which left Phyllis with exactly four times as 
many counters as Mary, How many counters had 
each at the beginning of play ? 

I GIVE a little two- mover chesi problem that took 
my fancy when I first saw it a few years ago. It is 

iWgte 1 

by Mr + VV + Meredith. White plays and checkmates in 
two moves. The key move is quite pretty. How 
many minutes will it lake the reader to find it ? 

White mates in two moves 

Solutions to Last Months Puzzles, 

It will be seen from the illustration how, start ins? 
from the black 
circle, all the 
other eight 
circles may be 
struck out with 
four continuous 
straight lines. 
In solving all 
puzzles we have 
to beware of 
reading into 
thein conditions 
that are not 
imputed. I hus, 
if we tried to 
solve the pre- 
sent puzzle bv 
passing through 
the exact centres of all the circles we should not succeed 
in doing it, Since it is obvious that only one circle 
can be struck out by the first line, it is at once clear 
that at least three must be passed through by one of 
the succeeding lines. 

The smallest sum of money in pounds, shillings, 
pence* and farthings* containing all the nine digits 
once and once only, is £2,567 18s. 9 id. 

The move is Kt (from Q 3) to K 5, upon which all 
the ten Black kings are checkmated. 

The youngsters must have bought three bare at 
fourpence each, fifteen bars at a halfpenny each, and 
two bars at a farthing each. They thus purchased 
twenty bars for nvtnty penct:. 


The series of stories now appearing arc specially translated for English- 
speaking boys and girls from a volume of the best Russian Wonder Tales 
selected by command of the Czar for the use of his own children, 


Illustrated by H. R. Millar. 

LONG time ago, not in our 
day, beyond the trackless 
woods, beyond the desert 
sands. In a certain far king- 
dom of a certain empire, there 
lived an old peasant and his 
wife, who had one son called 
Martin. Time passed, and the peasant fell 
ill and died, and Martin and his mother 
grieved much. 

Now, the peasant had left to his wife the 
sum of twenty pounds, and, though she 
disliked to begin so soon to spend it T they 
could not die of starvation. So when in a 
week's time they had eaten all the bread 

Dlg.'.ized by GoOglC 

they had in store, she took a half of the sum 
and gave it to her son, saying :— 

" There , my son, are ten pounds. Go to 
the neighbours and borrow a horse, and drive 
to town to buy bread/ 1 

Martin borrowed the horse and went to 
town. There, as he passed a butcher's shop, 
he saw the street full of people and heard a 
great noise of scolding. He stopped and 
found that the butchers had caught a hunting- 
dog with drooping ears, and. having tied it 
to a post* were beating it with a stick, while 
the poor dog, whining and crying, was 
struggling to tear himself free. 

Martin ran to the butchers and stayed their 

4t Brothers/ 5 he said, t( why do you treat 
this poor dog so unmercifully ? " 

The butchers answered : 4I Why should we 
not beat the wretched brute ? He has spoiled 




a whole side of beef ! " And again they 
began belabouring him. 

" Enough ! " said Martin. " There is no 
profit for you in that. Better sell him to 

" Very good," they replied. " Buy him if 
you will, but you shall give us ten pounds 
for him." 

" That I will," said Martin, and, taking 
out his ten pounds, gave them to the butchers, 
untied the dog, and took him home. And 
all the way the dog wagged his tail and 
rubbed his head against his new master's 
hand, as if to show he well understood that 
Martin had saved his life. 

When Martin reached home his mother 
asked : " My son, where is the bread you 
bought ? " 

" I have bought a piece of good luck for 
myself," he answered, and showed her the 
dog, which he had named Growler. 

" What luck is there in a dog, which must 
eat, even as we must ? " cried his mother. 
" But what else did you buy ? " 

" If I had had more money I would have 
bought food," said Martin ; " but the dog 
cost all I had." 

Then the old woman began to upbraid him. 

" We have nothing to eat ourselves," she 
said, " for to-day I used the last scrapings 
of the bin to, make a dry meal-cake. To- 
morrow we shall not even have this ! " 

That night they ate the dry meal-cake, 
while his mother did not leave off her scolding, 
and Martin broke his share in half and gave 
one piece to the dog. 

Next day the old woman took out the other 
ten pounds, and, giving them to Martin, said : 
" Here, son, take the last of our money to 
town and buy us bread ; and mind you do 
not, as before, waste it upon nothing." 

Martin drove to town, and on his way to 
the baker's he saw a crowd following a 
boy, who had tied a cord about the neck of a 
cat with a crooked tail and was dragging 
her along the street. 

" Stop ! " cried Martin. " Where are you 
dragging that poor cat ? " 

"lam going to drown the rascally pest in 
the river," the boy replied. " She has run 
off with a cake from our table." 

" No good can come to you from that," 
said Martin. " Better sell her to me." 

" Good," said the boy, mockingly. " You 
shall have her for ten pounds." 

Martin spent no time in reflection. He 
put his hand into his breast, pulled out the 
money, took the cat, put her into a bag, and 
went home. 

Digitized by tjOOQ I C 

" Where is the bread you have bought ? " 
asked his mother. 

" I bought none," he answered. 

" What, then," the old woman asked, " did 
you purchase ? " 

Martin took out the cat, which he had 
named Puss, saying : " I have bought this 
second piece of good luck for myself." 

" Small luck in a cat, which must be fed," 
said his mother. " But what else did you 
purchase ? " 

" If I had had more money," Martin replied, 
" I would have bought food ; but I had to 
give the whole ten pounds for her." 

At this the old woman flew into a passion. 
" What a fool you are ! " she screamed. 
" You shall live in this house no longer. Be 
gone, and search for bread among strangers ! "' 

So Martin left his home, and went to a 
neighbouring village to look for work, and 
wherever he went Growler the dog and Puss 
the cat went running after him. At length 
he met a priest, who asked : " Whither are 
you going, good youth ? " 

" To engage myself as a workman," replied 

" Come with me," said the priest. " I 
give no contract, but whoever labours for 
me three years will not be displeased with 
what I pay him." 

Martin agreed and went with the priest, 
and laboured for him, without tiring, three 
summers and three winters. When it came 
time for his payment, the priest called him 
into his storehouse and said : " Now, Martin, 
you shall receive the wage for your service. 
Here are three bags, one filled with gold, one 
with silver, and one with sand. Take which 
you will." 

Martin looked at the bags and began to 

" If I take the gold," he said to himself, 
" I may buy what I will for a long time. If 
I take the silver, I shall be rich for a little 
time. If I take the sand, I shall be neither 
poorer nor richer than I am now. But who 
would take sand when he could get silver, or 
silver when he might have gold ? There is 
surely some deeper reason hidden beneath 
this simple thing ! " So, having reflected, 
he said : " By your leave, master, I choose 
the bag of sand." 

" Well," said the other, " since you despise 
gold and silver, take it." 

Martin hoisted up the heavy bag on to 
his back and set out, followed by the dog 
with drooping ears and the cat with the 
crooked tail, to find another master and 
another service. He walked a long way and 

U 1 1 I U I I I '_' I I 




he walked a short way, and the bag grew 
heavier earh minute, and the dog Growler 
and the cat Puss followed after him wherever 
he went. He came at length, in a thick, 
dark wood that seemed untrodden and asleep, 
to a green lawn, and in the middle of it a fire 
had been kindled, and in the fire, bound with 
twelve cords j sat a maiden of such beauty 
that it could neither be guessed nor dreamed 
of. but only told in a tale. 

When the maiden saw him she tried : 
ii Good youth ? if you would get good luck 

three years* service, and I chose it rather 
than silver and gold," 

11 Then it must have been precious/ ' she 
said. " And yet, even so, I will richly repay 
you, ,? She took a ring from her little finger 
and gave it to him. " This is no ordinary 
ring/"' she said, M If you desire anything, 
even though it be to wed a Czar's daughter, 
you have but to throw it from one hand to 
the other. But beware not to tell anyone of 
it, else you will bring upon yourself a great 
misfortune/' So saying, she struck her foot 


for yourself, make haste and quench this 
flame ! " 

Untying the mouth of the bag, Martin 
poured the sand on the flames and ex- 
tinguished them, and rut the twelve cords 
and set the maiden free. 

" Thanks, good youth," said she. ** I am 
the daughter of the Czar Zmey, the ruler of 
the Snake Kingdom, who is at war with 
Kastchey the Wizard. He it was who pre- 
pared this hateful death from which you have 
rescued me. But tell me, how came you to 
bear on your hack the bap of sand ? " 

14 It was my wages/' he answered, " for 

;ed by GbOgle 

sharply against the ground, and instantly 
became transformed into a snake, which 
darted away into the forest, 

li If all I want may be made to come so 
easily/' thought Martin, " what is the need 
of seeking for work ? " and putting the Ting 
on his finger he started back the way he had 
come* Whether it was near or far, whether 
the journey was a long one or a short one, 
he came at length to his native land and to 
his own village, and finding his old mother, 
who had repented with many tears that she 
had sent him away in anger, they began again 
to live together, with Growler the dog and 




Puss the cat, without any sorrow. When 
they had need of anything Martin had but 
to take off his ring, throw it from one hand to 
the other, and immediately twelve youths 
would appear, all alike to the very hair and 
voice, saying : " What is your desire, Martin 
the peasant's son ? " And he had but to 
name what he desired to have it straightway 
brought him. 

Time passed, and at length Martin made up 
his mind to marry, and, remembering what 
the daughter of the Snake Czar had told him 
of the ring, he said to himself : " Since I may 
have whatever I wish, I will wed the Czar's 
daughter herself ! " 

He called his mother, therefore, and hade 

her go to the Czar and ask for 

the princess's hand ; but the old 

woman besought him to give up 

his purpose. 

il Never mind, mother/' he answered, 

"Fear nothing. Surely, if I send you 

on this errand, you may be bold enough 

to carry it. Go and bring me the Czar's 

answer, and come not back without it." 

So his mother hobbled off to the Czar's 

palace. She went into the courtyard, and 

was half-way up the stairway when ihe 

sentries seized her. 

" What, beldame ! " they said, " Would you 
go where even mighty champions and valiant 
generals may not pass without royal leave ?" 
Then she fell to shrieking and upbraiding 
them till the place had never known such a 
din, and even the Czar heard it and came to 
the palace window. 

Seeing the sentries dragging away an old 
woman, he bade them let her in. They took 
their hands from her, therefore, and she 
entered the room where the Czar sat with his 
sages and wise counsellors, and, first saying 
a prayer before the holy pictures on the wall, 
saluted him. 

11 Well, old woman " he asked, ( * what 

would voOmfhslrfAfti 


2 33 


11 Czar's Majesty/' she said, u I pray 
you be not angered, but I have a merchant and 
you have merchandise. The merchant is my 
son, Martin, who is the cleverest kid in the 
world, and the merchandise is your daughter, 
the beautiful princess. If you will give her 
to him for wife, what a brave parr they will 
be ! " 

'* Are you mad, old woman ? " shouted the 

li No, Czar/' said she ; 1( and if it please 
you, give me your answer," 

The Czar, thinking she had lost her wits, 
said ; l You should know, old woman, that 
a suitor for the hand of a Czar's daughter 
should send rich gifts, precious things such as 
are not to be found in the royal treasury* 
Go home, therefore, till you can come in 
such manner as is fitting." This he said, 
thinking to be rid of the matter easily. 

So the old woman went back and gave the 
answer to her son* 

" And now," she said, " I hope you will 
give over this silly plan of yours." 

Martin, however, went out of the cottage, 
threw his ring from one hand to the other, 
and instantly the twelve youths, alike as 
twelve peasj appeared, saying : ±l What is 
your desire, Martin the peasant's son ? " 
And he bade them bring, on twelve golden 
trays, precious gifts lit for a Czar, such as 
were not to be found in the royal treasury. 
At once disappearing, they returned hearing 
all manner of gold and silver work and jewels 
such as cannot be described in words, and with 
these he sent his mother to the palace. 

When the sentries reported to the Czar that 

VoL vim, -M. 

by Google 

the old peasant woman had returned thus 
laden, he hade them admit her, and at the 
richness of the gifts she brought could scarce 
believe his eyes. When she again demanded 
the hand of his daughter for her son, however, 
he called his Ministers, asking : " What 
answer is a fitting one to give ? These are 
truly a king's gifts, and where she has obtained 
them I cannot guess j but, after all, her son 
is only a peasant, and it is not seemly that 
a peasant wed a princess." 

Then the Prime Minister, coming forward, 
craved the Czar's permission, and said to 
her : " Since your son, old woman, is, as you 
have said, the cleverest lad in the world, let 
him build in one round of the sun a splendid 
palace beside this one, with a bridge of 
crystal from one to the other. Let the bridge 
be adorned with curious carvings and covered 
with embroidered carpets, and on either side 
of it let there be a row of apple-trees with 
fruit of silver and gold, and with birds of 
Paradise upon each branch. And near by 
let him build a five-domed cathedral where, 
when they are wedded, he and the princess 
may receive the marriage crown. If your 
son does this, then he shall have the Czar's 
daughter. If not, you shall both be beheaded," 

The old woman went out from the Czar's 
presence to her son, weeping a flood of bitter 

u Did I not tell you," she said to Martin, 
** to keep to your own place ? But you paid 
no heed, and now our heads are forfeit. 
To-morrow we shall both be executed ! " 

" Do not weep, mother/' he said, comforting 
her, " Perhaps we shall not perish. Pray 
Original from 




to God, take a drink of milk, and lie down to 
sleep ; we may find more wisdom in the 
morning than in the evening." 

At midnight Martin rose, went outside the 
cottage, threw the ring from one hand to the 
other, and instantly the twelve youths 
appeared, saying : " What is your desire, 
Martin the peasant's son ? " He bade them 
build the palace as the Czar's Minister had 
demanded, and at once they rushed away in 
different directions, returning with an army 
of masons, carpenters, and foremen, and the 
work began. 

In the morning the Czar, going to his 
balcony, saw to his surprise the palace, the 
cathedral, the crystal bridge with its costly 
carpets and its trees with silver and gold 
apples, all as had been required. He sent 
then for his Ministers and officers, and bade 
the beautiful princess prepare for her bridal. 
" Little I thought," he said, " to behold you 
marry the son of a peasant, but I see not 
how it can be avoided." 

Meanwhile, at his own cottage, Martin, by 
aid of the ring, summoned the twelve youths 
and demanded an officer's dress, an open 
carriage richly ornamented and drawn by six 
horses, and drove to the cathedral. Thither 
also came the Czar, with all his Ministers, 
and with his daughter, washed, powdered, 
rouged, and clad in splendid Court robes ; 
and after the Mass Martin the peasant's son 
and the beautiful princess stood before the 
people and were married. 

The Czar gave his daughter a rich marriage 
portion, bestowed high rank upon his son- 
in-law, and gave a festival for the whole 
realm, and the newly-wedded pair began to 
live together in the new palace. 

Now the Czar's daughter was vain and 
proud, and it angered her that she had been 
given, not to a king or to a prince, but to a 
simple peasant, and she began to wish to be 
rid of her husband. So she flattered him in 
every way and asked him many wheedling 
questions, in order to discover by what means 
he was able to do such wonderful things. 
For a long time Martin withstood her, but 
one evening, when she had plied him with 
brandy and covered him with kisses and 
tempted him with caressing words, he yielded 
and told her the secret of the wonder-working 

As soon as he was asleep his wife took the 
ring from his finger, went to the balcony, 
and threw it from one hand to another, and 
instantly the twelve youths appeared, saying : 
" What is your desire, beautiful King's 
daughter ? " She bade them, that same 

Digitized by GoOQle 

hour, to transport the palace, the bridge, 
and cathedral, with herself, across three times 
nine lands to the thirtieth kingdom ; and as 
for her husband, to leave him lying on the 

In the morning the Czar went to his balcony, 
and, looking, saw no longer either palace, 
bridge, or cathedral. He called messengers 
and sent them out, and, running swiftly, they 
returned, saying : " Czar's Majesty, where 
yesterday were the splendid palace and 
cathedral is now only a bare meadow, with 
your son-in-law lying asleep in the middle 
of it. But your daughter the princess is 
nowhere to be found." 

In great wrath the Czar bade them bring 
Martin before him, and called a council of 
his Ministers, and demanded what he had 
done with the palace and the princess. And 
when Martin could not answer, he gave orders 
to build a great stone column with but a single 
small window, and to wall him alive within it, 
without food or drink, till the princess be 
found. So the masons came and built the 
stone column, and walled poor Martin in, to 
die of starvation. 

Now, Growler, the dog with drooping ears, 
had been away paying a visit, and, returning 
on the third day, found what had happened 
to his master. He set off at once to the cottage 
of Martin's mother, where he found Puss the 
cat purring by the stove. 

" Oh, you scoundrel," said he, " who 
think only to lie in warm places and to 
scratch yourself ! Do you not know that our 
master is in danger of death ? Have you 
forgotten how he paid ten pounds to save 
your worthless life ? But for him the worms 
would long ago have eaten you ! Up, 
quickly ! We must help him in some way." 

The cat leaped up from the stove and went 
with the dog, and together they hastened to 
the stone column, up which the cat was able 
to climb. Having looked through the small 
window, she jumped to the ground and said : 
" Our master is in evil case, and as helpless 
as a man with one leg tied to his ear. He 
sits weeping, bemoaning the loss of a ring 
which his wife has taken from him, and left 
him to perish of starvation. How can we 
get food for him ? " 

" You can climb a wall," said the dog, 
" but, all the same, you are a fool. I will 
tell you a way. We will run about the town, 
and when we meet a baker's boy with a tray 
I will roll under his feet, so that he will stumble 
and drop the tray from his head. Then do 
you quickly seize a loaf and make off with it, 
and carry it to the master." 

■_| 1 1 I ■.! I I I '_' I 1 1 




The cat agreed, and > going to the main 
street, they soon met a baker's apprentice 
with a tray. Growler rushed under his feet, 
the boy staggered and dropped the tray, and, 
from terror and fear lest the dog might be 
mad ? ran away. The loaves scattered, and 
the cat, seizing one, carried it to the 
stone column, climbed to its top, and 
pushed it through the little window. 
In the same way they frightened a 
peasant carrying milk, and brought 
Martin many a little bottle. So they 
took him, one by one, loaves of white 
bread and rolls of brown, meats and 
provisions of all sorts, with brandy 
and milk in abundance — sufficient for 
a whole year. 

Then Growler the 
dog said to the cat : 
^ You said our 
master bemoaned 
the loss of his ring, 
which we may be 
sure is at the bottom 
of all his misfor- 
tune. His wife, who 
has taken it ? has 
disappeared with 
the palace. We 
have only to find 
the palace, there- 
fore, and w r e shall 
be near to finding 
the ring. Let us 
go in smirch of it 
without delay," 

x^ccordingly that 
same night they set 
out. Thev w r ent a 
long way and a 
^hort way, when 
they came to the 
blue sea j and there 
the cat mounted 
the dog's back and 
so they crossed to the thirtieth king- 
dom, and, after a search, found the 
palace in which Martin had lived. 
Then the dog said : " Creep into 
the wine-cellar and keep your 
eyes open, and when the house- 
keeper sends for anything, make 
haste and get it for her. I will 
lie in the courtyard, and when they 
send from the kitchen for wood, I will run 
and fetch it." 

They did so, until one day the housekeeper 
said : " I hear there ts a cat with a crooked 
tail in the wine-cellar which fetches whatever 

is required* Bring her to me, and let hi*r 
sleep indoors* And the cook said : " I hear 
there is a dog in the courtyard which, as 
soon as I send for wood, runs and fetches 
it. Let him stay in the kitchen at night," 
So Growler and Puss had the run of thD 

by CiOOgle 




house 7 and set themselves to discover where 
the princess kept the wonder-working ring. 
And soon they saw that the princess indeed 
had a ring which she wore on her little finger ; 
but by day she never took it off, and try as 
Original from 




they might they could not succeed 
in getting into her sleeping- chamber. 

Now , when they had almost de- 
spaired of securing it, the dog said 
to the cat : " The only thing that 
can get at night into the princess's 
sleeping -chamber is a mouse. In 
this country is the Mouse Kingdom. 
Let us go there and compel the 
Mouse Czar to aid us," 

They set out at once, and soon 
arrived at the Kingdom of the 
Mice ^ where was no human being 

to be seen, but 

so many mice 

that it w r as impossible to count them. There 
they both fell upon the mice, and began to 
kill them with teeth and claws, and to pile 
their bodies in heaps like sheaves, 

NoWj this great slaughter produced terror 
throughout all the kingdom, and at last, 
seeing so many of his subjects slain, the 
Mouse Czar himself came and, saluting with 
his moustaches, prostrated himself humbly 
before the dog and cat. 

" strong and powerful heroer! " he said. 
" Have mercy on my wretched little people 
and make not my kingdom perish ! What 
service can I render you in return for our 
lives ? H 

Growler the dog answered : " In this 
kingdom is a palace in which lives a beautiful 
Czar's daughter, She has stolen from my 
master a ring which she wears on her little 
finger* Return to us the ring, or your king- 
dom shall be made empty and disappear." 

The Mouse Czar called his subjects together, 
great and small, and questioned them, where- 
upon a mouseling came forward and said : 
" Czar's Majesty, I know well the palace., 
and have often been in the princess's sleeping- 
chamber. She wears the ring on her little 
finger by day, but at night, when she lies 
down to sleep, she puts it in her mouth," 

" Bring it to me/ 1 said the Czar, u and you 
shall have the chief place of honour 
about my person ! " 

The mouseling hastened to the 
palace, and at nightfall crept into 
the princess's bedroom, and, when 
she had fallen asleep, jumped to 
her pillow and thrust his tail into 
her nostril. It tickled her so that 
she sneezed , and the ring flew out 
of her mouth and rolled to the 
floor, where the mouseling instantly 
seized it and carried it to the 
Mouse Czar, who delivered it to the 
dog and cat, 

Growler and Puss bade the Mouse 


by L^OOgle 

Czar farewell, and prepared to 

"Give me the ring/' said the cat, 
" You, Growler, must always be 
barking, but I will carry it in my 
mouth safer than one of your 

So the dog and the cat hastened 
to their own capital, where Martin 
sat in the stone column waiting 
for death. The cat climbed the 
stone wall and pushed the ring 
through the little window so that 
it fell at Martin's feet. 
Now, for three days past Martin's food and 
drink had all been gone, and as it had been so 
long since he had seen his two faithful friends, 
he had concluded that some misfortune had 
befallen them and that he must die. When 
he saw the ring, however, and recognized it 
as the one he had lost, he rejoiced greatly, 
and at once throwing it from one hand to 
the other he summoned the twelve youths. 

" What is your desire, Martin the peasant's 
son ? " they asked. 

" Bring me/' he answered; M food to eat 
and wine to drink ; and, since I have been 
sad, bring a band of musicians and let them 
play music so sweet that all who hear must 
stop and listen," 

So the food and drink were brought, and 
the music began to plavj while Martin 
gladdened his heart ; and presently a mes- 
senger came to the Czar and said : " O Czar's 
Majesty, the prisoner, your son-in-iaw, who 
should have been dead long ago, is surely a 
magician ; for from the column of stone in 
which he is prisoned there comes the noise of 
feasting and merriment and the sound of 
music, and a great concourse of people is 
gathered in the open square to listen." 

The Czar sent a herald to order them to 
disperse, but they could not move because 
of the music. which held even the heralds 
spellbound. He sent then a troop 
of soldiers, but they also were com- 
pelled to stay and listen. Finally 
the Czar himself , with his attendants, 
left the palace and went to the stone 
column. But, hearing the cunning 
music, he too found it impossible to 
leave the spot, so that he and his 
Court, his soldiers, and well-nigh 
all the people of his capital were 
forced to stand there till they were 
ready to faint from weariness. 

At last, when night had come, 
the Czar called to Martin, saying: 
li Son-in-law, let Your music cease ! 
Original from 



2 37 

Tell me the meaning of these strange things, 
and you shall be forgiven ! " 

Martin caused the musicians to cease play- 
ing, and called to the Czan u O Czar's 
Majesty/' he said, " go to your palace and 
sleep. The morning will be wiser than 
the evening/' 

So the troops dispersed the people, 
and the Czar returned to the palace* 
Then Martin, summoning the twelve 
youths, said : " Bring from the thirtieth 
kingdom my palace, with the five-domed 
cathedral and the crystal bridge, and 
let my ungrateful wife he brought also/* 

In the morning, when the Czar went 
to his balcony, he saw all once more as 
it had been. He hastened to cross the 
crystal bridge to his son-in-law's palace, 
where Martin met him, took his hand, 
and led him to his council-halL There 
he recounted all that had befallen him 
at the hands of the princess his wife. 

" Thus/* he said, M did your daughter 
serve me, her husband, What, now 
shall be her punishment ? '' 

The Czar considered, and 
said: "She should be tied 
to the tail of a wild stallion, 
and her body scattered in 
the deep ravines ; but since 
she is my daughter and 
your wife j I beseech you, 
son-in-law, by your for- 
giveness to make her 
ashamed of her folly, and 
to take her to yourself 
once more/' 

So Martin sent for 
his wife, who, having 
awaked to find her 
palace in its old 
place, knew not 
what evil death 
awaited her ; and 
he forgave her and 
took her again to 
wife. And she was 
ashamed and wept 
before him, and 
began to love him 
trulv from that 

So they dwelt together in happiness always, 
but to his life's end Martin kept on his finger 
the wonder-working ring^ and parted not 
with his two friends, Growler the dog and 
Puss the cat. 



by Google 

Original from 


\We shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section. and to Pay for suck as are accepted] 

matter no particular attention. On completing 
the round he slipped the bull into his golfing 
jacket, leaving the latter in the club-house* 
A couple of days afterwards he revisited the 
course, and pot the biggest shock of his life 
when he found that the ball he had so 
recently played with had assumed the 
form shown in the photograph. The fungus- 
looking mass exuding at the pole of the 
ball is the inner core, round which the 
thread is wound, and how it managed to 
burst through the thread and again through 
the outer cover is a problem which has 
puzzled many prominent golfers to whom 
it has been shown* The suggestion has been 
made that the ball had been subjected to 
heat, but this was not the case. The most 
feasible explanation seems to be that the 
compression on the soft rubber core was 
so tremendous as to cause it to force 

THE LARGEST SPIDER'S WEB IN THE WORLD. its way through a weakened part of its 

ri PHE largest spider's web in the world was spun, casing. — Mr. Jas. W. Bcgbie. 19, Comely Hunk 
X not by a spider, but by human hands. It stands Road, Edinburgh, 

on the lawn of a Chicago man's country homeland is of 

such tremendous size as to startle the passer-by when 

he first sees it. The creator of this interesting oddity 

conceived the idea of attempting to see how nearly an 

actual spider's web could be reproduced with rope. 

Selecting two large trees on the lawn of his home, 

he spun between them this spider's web, forty feet by 

sixty, which is so strong that a man may easily climb 

tc the centre or top of 1L. The web faces the main 

thoroughfare passing the house, and is one of the most 

fascinating country ground decorations ever seen. The 

spinner could not attain the minuteness of the actual 

spider's web, but came so near to it that the illusion 

is almost perfect, The uniqueness of the undertaking 

catches and fascinates every eye, — Mr* Robert H, 

jM on It on, 517, Rand-McNally Building, Chicago, 

Illinois, U.S. A* 


WHAT must „ 

certainly be 
one of the most 
extraordinary inci- 
dents experienced 
since the advent of 
the rubber - cored 
golf ball is illus- 
trated in the accom- 
panying photo 
g^aph* A friend ol 
the contributor was 
recently playing 
over one of the 
Fifeshire courses, 
usin£ an absolutely 
new ball of a well- 
known brand. On 
his way round he 
observed that a 
small split had 
made itself manifest 
close to one of the 
poles, but gave the 


ed by GOOQJ C 


CHINESE women have a novel method of keeping 
a baby quiet and out of harm's way. The child 
seen in the tub is just able to rest its feet on the earth 
with which it has been partly filled, in order to keep it 
quite steady. The two forked slicks hanging from the 
cottage roof are to keep away evil spirits. When this 
snapshot was taken at the village of Anting, China, 
the woman whose face can just In: seen pcrping mtmil 
the doorway rushed out in a great state of mind, 
snatched the child from the r tub, and cried out in 
despair thai the ' l evil eye T ' had Irth cm upnn ii , 
Our Manchu boy told us she used the most horrible 
epithets, consigning all " foreign dievils " to eternal 
perdition. We tried in vain to assure the woman that 
no harm had been done to the child* and the offer of a 
dollar only seemed to add insult to injury- — Mr. ILL. 
Hillier, 20, Durham Terrace, Westbourne Gardens, 
London, W, 

Original from 



the new ground brown and lifeless, and as if burned 
by recent fire. The plant was poor arid feeble, and 
seemingly exhausted with its efforts, but it was then 
that I comprehended its ideal character and saw 
its noble function and order of glory among the 
constellations of the earth/*] 


IT is not at all unusual for the common green parra- 
keel of India to be trained to perform tricks by 
the natives, but the s[>ecimen here seen shows quite 
unheard-of proficiency. Besides the tricks of twirling 
a stick burning at both ends, shooting an arrow from 
a bow, and threading beads with a shortened needle, 
shown in the illustrations, it rings the bell for temple 
service, draws up a bucket for holy water, and places 
offerings of money on the altar of a miniature shrine. 
It will also pick out I lie ace from a number of cards, 
but this is done by the bird watching for signals from 
its master's finger when it gets the right card, the oiher 
tricks being carried out on order without further 
instructions. Its owner* Mr. A* Ezra* who brought the 
bird from India and took the photographs here shown, 
puts it through its performances once a week to keep 
them fresh in its memory, rewarding it with tit -bits. 


THE so Ida ne I las of the high Alpine meadows of 
Switzerland bore their way up th rough the 
coating of ice and snow by means of the heat generated 
by the growing stem. Quite commonly, if the layer 
of snow is very thick, the flower will open without 
ever reaching the surface at a Up The blossom is in 
no way affected by its strange sur- 
roundings. The space round the 
stem is, of course, thawed by the 
growing stem, which gives out heat. 
— Mr. S. Leonard lias tin t Morn ingside, 
Lyndhurst, Hants, 

[It is interesting to remember 
Ruskin's references to this flower, 
in his poetic style, in the second 
volume of u Modern Painters rt : — 

u If j passing to the edge of a sheet 
of unsullied snow upon the lower 
Alps early in May, we find, as we 
are nearly sure to find, two or three little 
round openings pierced in it, and, through 
these emergent, a slender, pensive, fragile 
flower {Soldatiflia alpina), whose small, 
dark, purple- fringed bell hangs down and 
shudders over the icy cleft that it has 
cloven r as if partly wondering at its own 
recent grave and partly dying of very 
fatigue after its hard - won victory ; we 
shall be, or we ought to be, moved by 
a totally different impression of loveliness 
from that which we receive among the 
dead ice and the idle clouds, The first 
time that I saw it it was growing, of 
magnificent size, on a sunny Alpine 
pasture, among bleating of sheep and 
lowing of cattle, associated vviih a pro- 
fusion of Geum m&ntanum and A'tffttw- it 'its 
/ l ytetttius m I noticed it only because new 
to me, nor perceived any peculiar beauty 
in hs cloven flower, Some days after I 
found it alone, among the wrack of the 
higher clouds and howling of glacier 
winds, piercing through an edge of 
avalanche, which, in its retiring, had left 

by LiOOglC 

Undoubtedly this parrot 
is entitled to be called a 
genius, and, as so often 
happens with geniuses, 
its mental development 
Ls one -sided- Although 
a three - year - old bird 
at I1M-.1, and very fond ol 
its master, it has never 
learnt to say a single 
word ; yet these parrakeet* 
are often very £ood talkers. 
— Mr- Frank 1'inn, .V>. St. 
George's Road, Regent' > 

Park, NAV. 


gmal tram 




I REM EMBER reading in an American 
publication that some patriot once 
showed George Washington how it was pos- 
sible to make a five-pointed star, for their 
country's flag, with only two scissor-cuts. 
I find that, with careful folding of the paper, 
one cut alone is necessary t as the accom- 
panying diagrams show, The paper is 
folded four limes* Begin with a square of 
paper and fold it across, and then make the 
remaining folds as shown in the diagram. 
The small cross marked on one corner of 
ihe paper serves a useful purpose, as it shows 
the position of that corner after each fold. 
—Miss D + Russell, Redmile, Net ley Abbey. 


T' 1 HE unique delivery car shown herewith advertises a brand 
1 of cigars, and the gigantic bead of a man is represented 
ui>on a box bearing a facsimile of the label. The automatic 
smoker holds a four foot cigar between his tee tin and as he 
proceeds through the streets he emits an occasional puff of 
smoke from his mouth, while the cigar-end is also smouldering. 
The device which produces the smoke is concealed within the 
box. It consists of a "smudge" of damp straw in a little 
container. This connects with a small bellows that forces the 
smoke through a tube to the openings above. A miniature 
electric motor supplies the power for the bellows, which operates 
at short intervals. As a finishing touch, the ears of the head 
wriggle every little while, presumably to show delight at the 
qualities of the cigar,— Mr. C, L. Edhohn, 4624, Figueroa 
Street, Los Angeles p CaL, LLS,A, 

"Tke K 


As He I 



In our last two numbers we kave had the privilege of 
puUisning articles on " THE HOME LIFE OF THE 


WORKS, to which Their Majesties had given their 
personal authority and approval. *We have now the 
pleasure of announcing that the German Emperor has 
graciously extended to us the same privilege (a privilege 
never before accorded to any other magazine), and that a 
most interesting article, which has been read and approved 
by His Majesty, will appear in our next number under 
the above title- 


C^f\r%ct\i* Original from 



9 f {£** page 2J2,) 

* i * : *!/• 

by Google 

Original from 


Vol. xliii. 

MARCH, 1912. 

No. 255. 


The Experiences or a Lip -Reader, 


Illustrated by J. R. Skelton. 
VIL— Lolda. 

XPERIENCE has taught me 
that people discuss the most 
confidential matters in public 
places ; chiefly, probably, in 
establishments in which per- 
sons eat and drink together. 
I have often been discon- 
certed in a restaurant by the discovery of the 
amazingly intimate themes of the conversa- 
tions which are being carried on around me. 
It is on such occasions that the gift I have of 
learning what people are saying by merely 
looking at their faces becomes a very question- 
able possession. I have had to keep my eyes 
fastened on my plate to avoid having observa- 
tions forced upon me which were certainly 
intended for no one but the individual to 
whom they were addressed. Once when I 
was lunching with Mr. Carryer at the King's 
Restaurant, I actually saw a girl proposing 
to a man. She was quite a pretty girl, too ; 
I had been admiring her hat. I saw her say 
to the man with whom she was sharing a 
table : — 

" Arthur, won't you marry me ? Say you 
will. I don't believe you have any idea how 
fond I am of you ; I'd love to be your wife." 
I did not see what his reply was ; I looked 
away, feeling that this was certainly a case 
in which a third person was not company. 
I had scarcely got over the embarrassment 
which my unintentional eavesdropping had 
occasioned me when Harry Carryer said : — 

" You see that fellow over there ? That's 

Vol. xliii.— 17. Copyright, 1912, 

" And who may Isolda be ? " I inquired, 
looking in the direction indicated. 

" I thought everyone knew who Isolda was. 
He's the fortune-telling Johnny, chiromancer, 
palmist, or whatever he calls himself, whom 
everyone is rushing to consult. Women tell 
me that they think he is so beautiful, and 
are quite rude when I tell them that I don't 
think so." 

Isolda was a tall, narrow-chested, thin- 
faced, large-lipped, big-eyed, long-haired, 
dandified individual, who, I felt sure, freely 
used perfume. Presently a man crossed the 
restaurant and took a seat at Isolda's table. 
In appearance he was a contrast to Isolda — 
short, thick-set, red-cheeked, blue-eyed ; 
even at that distance I was convinced that 
he reeked of the country and the open air. 
Harry Carryer proceeded to regale me with 
a variety of anecdotes in which Isolda was 
the chief character ; some of them were such 
odd ones that I glanced at him again. The 
red-faced man was speaking with such 
emphasis that I had to see what he was saying. 

" You understand, I am going to post you 
up in everything about her, and you must 
let it off on her as if you had got it from the 
stars. You are to tell her that the consump- 
tion of which her sister Elsie died was brought 
on by a broken heart, because she was in love 
with a dark man with a slight cast in one eye 
— that's Tom Harvey. I know she was 
spoons on him ; she couldn't marry him 
because he had got no money. Then you 
are to tell bsr that her fate is mixed up— well ; 
by Kktod feirdf of MICHIGAN 



describe a man like me. Lay it on thick. 
Tell her I have proposed to her five times, 
which I have ; and that if she don't take me 
when I make it the sixth there'll be no end 
of a rumpus. And look here ; this is what I 
particularly want you to tell her." 

The speaker, leaning over the table, I have 
no doubt dropped his voice to a whisper ; he 
had grace enough to do that. 

" Tell her that she once cheated at baccarat, 
that the secret is known to one person, and 
that the only way she can save herself from a 
scandal is* by marrying me. Tell her also 
that she owes money for bets — so she does, a 
good bit — and that exposure is bound to come 
unless she protects herself by becoming my 
wife. Make it as hot as you please ; you can 
invent two or three things for yourself if you 
like. She's expecting such a lot from coming 
to see you that she'll swallow anything. 
My idea is that you'll give her a regular fit 
of the blues. If you manage things properly, 
when I propose to her again — to-night or 
to-morrow — she'll accept me right away ; 
and if she does accept me I'll give you fifty 

Isolda made merely one remark. 

" Fifty powids is not a large sum — for a 

The red-cheeked person was staring at the 
palmist as if he would have liked to hit him. 

" Fifty pounds isn't bad for a few minutes' 
talking. You will have to say something to 
her, anyhow. I'm giving you a distinct 
leg-up by dropping you a hint or two." 

Isolda said nothing ; he was apparently 
engrossed with the contents of his plate. 
The other plainly resented his silence. 

" Well, aren't you going to tell her what I 
want you to ? I would never have sent her 
to you at all if I'd thought you were going to 
turn up rusty. You've done this sort of 
thing for me before." 

" At your request I told a friend of yours 
that a certain horse would win a race which 
you knew it would not win, and it didn't. It 
is possible that she lost a considerable sum 
of money by backing it." 

The other smiled evilly. 

" She did — a potful ; she came a regular 
cropper. Served her right. I owed her one ; 
that made us even. Are you going to do 
this for me now ? " 

" I tell you again that fifty pounds is not 
a large sum — for a wife." 

" How much do you want ? " 

" At least a hundred." 

" Very well, you shall have a hundred ; 
only mind — I trust you." 

The speaker produced a blank cheque and 
a fountain pen. As he was filling up the 
cheque the palmist asked : — 

" What is the lady's name — this time ? " 

" The lady's name — this time — is Lucille 
Godwin. She is coming from Hyde Park 
Gate. I impressed on her the necessity of 
being punctual ; she will be with you at three- 
thirty sharp. I told her to wear a sprig of 
white heather. As I believe it's not your 
custom to ask your clients for their names — 
it impresses them so much more to find that 
you know them without asking — that sprig 
of white heather will tell you who she is." 

" And if she doesn't wear the sprig of white 
heather ? " 

" She'll have cornflowers in her hat ; corn- 
flower-blue is her favourite colour ; it does 
become her. She thinks cornflowers bring 
her luck ; she's always got one stowed away 
somewhere about her." 

" That's the most significant item of infor- 
mation you've given me yet ; it's possible 
that I may be able to make more of that than 
of anything else. I wish you good morning." 

As they left I glanced at the watch on 
my wrist. It was just after two. I wondered 
if I could communicate with Miss Lucille 
Godwin before she started for Isolda. I asked 
the waiter for the telephone call book. Harry 
surveyed me, as I searched its columns, with 
disapproving glances. 

" I'm looking for a person named Godwin. 
Ah, here we are — Godwin. There seems to 
be lots of them, they are all over London. 
Hyde Park Gate — that looks like the one I'm 
after. If you don't mind, I rather w^nt to 
send a telephone message." 

I went out and sent it. This is the sort 
of dialogue which took place : — 

"Yes? Who's there?" 

" Is that Mrs. Godwin's ? I want Miss 
Lucille Godwin." 

" I'll go and fetch her. What name, please ? " 

" Ask her to be quick — I've something 
very important to say to her." I ignored the 
question ; the person at the other end 
departed. Apparently I had hit upon the 
right Godwin the first time of asking. I 
waited for several seconds. Suddenly the 
sound of a girlish voice reached my ears. 

" Yes ? Who are you ? What do you 
want ? I'm in a hurry ; I've got an appoint- 
ment. I'm just rushing off to keep it." 

" You are going to Isolda." There was a 
note of surprise in the clear young voice. 

" How do you know that ? Who are you ? " 

" You are wearing a sprig of white heather 
for luck," gjn . 




" Who told you that ? What do you mean ? 
Whoever are you ? " 

" I want you to pay particular attention 
to what Isolda says to you. He has been told 
to tell you that your sister Elsie really died 
of a broken heart, because she was in love 
with a Mr. Harvey." 

" Good gracious ! Who told you that ? 
Will you tell me who you are ? " 

" He has also been told to tell you that 
your fate is mixed up with a short, square 
man, with red cheeks and blue eyes, whom 
you will recognize from his description." 

"Why, that's George Ratton. This is 
awful ! Before you say another word will 
you please tell me who you are ? " 

" He's also been told to tell you that you 
once cheated at baccarat." 

" Oh ! " A shriek came over the wire. 
" Please — please tell me who you are." 

" Also that you owe money for bets ; that 
cornflowers are your favourite flowers, and 
that you carry a cornflower about with you 
for luck. Isolda has been told these things 
about you in order that he may convey to 
you the idea that he has occult powers which 
he doesn't possess. The blue-eyed person 
has proposed to you five times ; he hopes, 
with Isolda's help, that you will accept him 
at the sixth time of asking. Be on your 
guard. Good-bye." 

I hung up the receiver and walked away. 
Something had constrained me to give Miss 
Lucille Godwin a friendly warning ; a man 
who could conspire with such a creature as 
Isolda against the girl he professed to love 
was the kind of person one ought to be warned 
against. Having conveyed that warning I 
felt that I had done all that was required of 
an utter stranger. 

Some days afterwards I was glancing down 
the advertisement columns of a daily paper 
when these words caught my eye : — 

" Will the stranger who sent the telephone 
message to L. G., about two-fifteen on Friday 
last, communicate at once with L. G. at 
her address, and so render a very great 
service ? " 

" L. G." ? I considered a moment. Clearly 
those were the initials of Lucille Godwin. 
About two-fifteen on the previous Friday I 
had sent a telephone message to Lucille 
Godwin. Could the advertisement refer to 
me ? I was reading the paper in my own 
sitting - room, after breakfast ; there was a 
telephone at my elbow. I should not be 
likely to do much harm by ascertaining. I 
again looked up Miss Godwin's number, found 
it, and was presently informed that the con- 

nection was made. There came, unless I was 
mistaken, the same voice over the wire. 

"Yes? Who are you?" 

" Can I speak to Miss Lucille Godwin ? " 

" I don't know about Miss Lucille, but I 
dare say you can speak to Miss May. What 
name, please ? " 

" If Miss Lucille can't come, send Miss 
May." I wondered why Miss Lucille could 
not come. All at once there came a voice 
which was very like the one I had heard on 
Friday, but not quite the same. 

" Yes ? Who are you ? I am May Godwin." 

" Do you happen to know anything about 
an advertisement which appears in to-day's 
Morning Post ? " 

" Oh, dear ; are you the person who tele- 
phoned on Friday ? Please tell me who you 
are. Come and see me, or let me come and 
see you ; I'm in such frightful trouble." 
Something in her voice suggested distress. 

" Are you Miss Lucille Godwin's sister ? " 

" Of course I am ; you know I am. Please 
tell me to whom I am speaking." Then, with 
a sudden burst which somehow made me 
wonder if it were a child who was speaking, 
" Oh, please, will you come and help me ? 
Lucille told me all about what you said to 
her — it was she* who put the advertisement 
in, and now she's disappeared." 

" Disappeared ? What do you mean by 
disappeared ? ? 

" She went out two days ago, and nothing 
has been seen or heard of her since. Suspense 
is driving me half out of my mind.'\ 

The speaker's voice was broken by what 
sounded very like a sob. 

" Have you no friends to whom you can 
apply ? I am an utter stranger." 

" That's one reason why I want you to 
come. If I go to any of our friends they're 
sure to give Lucille away, and then I don't 
know what will happen. I like the sound of 
your voice ; I can hear that you're a woman, 
and I'm sure that you can help me. Oh, 
please — please do come ! " • 

As the tearful, eager young voice kept 
flashing her entreaties along the wire I was 
turning things over in my mind. I had 
nothing very particular to do that morning ; 
the speaker's anxiety and distress seemed 
genuine enough ; after all, there was no real 
reason why I should not run round and see 
what all the pother was about ; why and 
where Miss Lucille Godwin had disappeared, 
and what help this frantic young lady sup- 
posed I could render. I said : — 

" I'll be with you in about twenty minutes ; 
will thai; suit you ? " 


2.J r > 


There came to me what almost amounted 
to a scream of joy. 

M Oh, thank you ! thank you ! thank you ! 
Please do come as fast as ever you can." 

About twenty minutes afterwards I was 
knocking at the door of a big house at Hyde 
Park Gate, It was opened by a footman* 

" Can I see Miss May Godwin ? 3> 

A slender figure came rush- 
ing across the hall ; an eager 
face looked at me in the open 
doorway, " Are you — 

quite small— I dare say not much over five 
feet, very slight and dainty. 

M My name is Judith Lee/' 

" I am May Godwin." 

" So I imagined ; I recognized your voice." 

" Didn't you send a telephone message to 
Lucille last Friday ? " 

" I did/' 


" I've just been talking to you over the 

*' Of course — yes — please come in," 

She led me to a pretty sitting-room on the 
second floor, evidently the sanctum of some- 
thing both feminine and young. 

M Please will you sit down ? May I ask 
for your name ? " 

The speaker assumed a dignity which 
became her rather well. The telephone had 
not misled me — she was extremely young, 
I set her down as just about seventeen ; her 
skirts barely reached the ground. She was 

" Then you must know something about 
us, because you told her the most private 
things, some of them known only to herself, 
and some , at most, to two or three others/' 

" Before I answer your questions, will you 
tell me if I understood you rightly that your 
sister has disappeared ? " 

11 She went out two days ago, and I've 
seen and heard nothing of her since." 

" Is your sister older than you ? " 

" Of course she is : she is nearly four vears 
older ; she has just turned twenty -one." 

"I don't wish to encroach upon your 




confidence. What I said to your sister over 
the telephone I learnt by the merest accident. 
Did she go to see Isolda ? " 

" Of course she did. He told her exactly 
what you said he would. He made her so 
wild that she told him that she knew he was 
going to say it, and there was quite a scene. 
She said that she felt that he would like to 
kill her." 

" What has happened since ? Understand, 
tell me nothing if you'd rather not." 

She knit her brows in dire perplexity. 

" I've simply got to tell someone. Things 
can't go on as they are ; to tell any of our 
friends would be to give Lucille away." She 
eyed me very hard, as if she were trying to 
discover what kind of person I was. " Can 
I trust you ? " 

" You can." 

" Then I will. I liked your voice, and 
now I like your looks, Miss Lee. I'll tell 
you everything." 

Then she drew a long breath, as if she sighed 
with relief. 

" George Ratton — you know George 
Ratton ? " 

" Short, square, red cheeks, blue eyes ? " 

" That's George. Then you do know him ? " 

" I saw him once." 

" When Lucille came back from Isolda 
she wrote him such a letter ! When he came 
over the next morning, she wouldn't £ee him. 
He wrote a note in the hall ; when he sent it 
up by Tomkins she sent it back unopened. 
TTien he sent her a telegram ; she had to 
open that, because, of course, until she 
opened it she didn't know who it was from. 
Such a telegram ! In that telegram there 
were over a hundred words — and there was a 
reply paid. She made me fill it up with just 
seven words : f Wire received. Lucille has 
nothing to say.' Soon after there came 
another telegram. She made me open that, 
and when I told her who it was from she 
wouldn't let me read it. Then he called to 
see me, and she wouldn't let me see him." 

" May I ask if you two girls are in the house 
alone ? " 

" The fact is, we've been a pair of perfect 
idiots. I may as well admit it, as that is 
where all the trouble began. Mother and 
father are abroad. We didn't want to go, 
so they put Mrs. Cotterill in charge. Of 
course, Mrs. Cotterill is quite nice, but we 
found her rather trying, so we got up a scheme 
to get rid of her, so that we might have a 
fortnight's perfect time before the mater and 
pater came home ; but almost from the 
moment that Mrs. Cotterill left the house 

everything began to go wrong. Lucille 
quarrelled with Jack " 

I ventured to intrude a query. " May I 
ask who Jack is ? " 

" Jack ? Oh, well, Jack's Jack ; he's the 
one that Lucille is really in love with, and 
everyone approves of. They are engaged, 
and were to be married this year ; but now, 
of course, it's impossible to say. Sometimes 
Lucille is rather trying ; it can't be expected 
that Jack is to put up with everything. So 
when he told her, as far as I can make out, 
quite politely, that he really couldn't, Lucille 
declared that she would never speak to him 
again ; and that's how the trouble began. 
She started encouraging George Ratton, who 
may be fond of her, but I'm nearly sure is 
fonder still of her money — she's got some now 
and will have a great deal more. Everybody 
says how frightfully hard-up George is ; and, 
anyhow, he's not a very nice person, or he 
would not induce her to gamble and bet. 
She has always been mad to go to one of these 
palmist people, but both mamma and papa 
have forbidden her. Of course, everyone is 
full of Isolda ; we know lots of people who 
have been to him, and George Ratton so 
cracked him up that nothing would satisfy 
her but that she should go. Just as she was 
starting there came your telephone message. 
How did you find out those things you told 
her ? " 

I explained. The excitable child broke 
into rhapsodies. 

" Oh, how wonderful ! Oh, how I should 
like to be you ! How lovely it must be to be 
able to tell what people are saying ! " 

I cut her short. " There are one or two 
matters which require my attention. Would 
you mind telling me what has happened to 
Lucille ? " 

" I was getting to it. When she came back 
from Isolda she was as mad as a hatter. She 
can fire up when she likes, and there must have 
been quite a scene. This is Thursday. On 
Tuesday morning she had a wire from Jack 
Upcott telling her he had been frightfully 
unhappy, begging her to forgive him, entreat- 
ing her to meet him — of all places in the 
world — in Richmond Park." 

" There may be a very simple explanation ; 
she may be staying with Mr. Upcott's friends. 
There must be lots of persons who would be 
willing to have her as a guest." 

" Of course there are ; that's just what I 
thought she was doing, though I thought it 
jolly mean of her to leave me all alone in the 
house alter the plans we had made. But 
last night rhere came a letter for her in Jack 



Upcott's handwriting, postmarked Nice. It 
seemed queer that he should be writing to her 
from Nice on the same day on which he had 
been telegraphing in town asking her to meet 
him in Richmond Park. I hesitated, and hesi- 
tated, and hesitated ; then at last I opened 
the envelope. Then I saw at once that some- 
where there must be something wrong. It 
was just a short note to say that, since she 
didn't want him in London, he thought he 
had better try Nice for a change, and that 
when she did want him she had only to send 
a wire, and he would return at once. I 
didn't sleep a wink all night, wondering 
where Lucille was. This morning, while I 
was having breakfast in bed, someone came 
with one of Lucille's visiting-cards, and said 
that she had sent him for the desk which 
stood on her writing-table, her jewel-case, 
and her dressing-bag. I said I would be 
down as soon as I could to see the messenger, 
but when I did get down he. was gone. Tomkins 
says that he was quite a respectable-looking 
person, in a light overcoat and a grey felt 
hat ; but evidently he had not courage enough 
to wait and see me. Here is the visiting-card 
he brought." 

As I looked at the card she handed me I 
saw that there were three lines pencilled on 
the back in very minute writing. " Desk on 
writing-table. Jewel-case in drawer. Dress- 
ing-bag in wardrobe." 

" Is this your sister's handwriting ? " 

" Not the least bit like it ; she writes a 
great, big, sprawly hand. I've never seen 
that writing before ; I'm sure I should remem- 
ber if I had — it is so very tiny. Who can 
that man have been who brought the card ? 
Where can he have got it ? What did he 
want those things of hers for ? Why didn't 
he wait for them ? " 

" I fancy that the answer to your last two 
questions is pretty obvious. But when do 
you say your parents are returning ? " 

" To-morrow. If Lucille isn't back before 
they arrive there will not only be a frightful 
rumpus, but they will probably find out all 
sorts of things that will put us into their black 
books for ages to come. I tell you we've 
behaved like a pair of perfect idiots." 

That at least was clear enough ; I only 
hoped that nothing worse would come of 
their folly than what she called a " frightful 
rumpus." I went up to a large photograph 
of a very pretty girl which stood on the 

" That's Lucille," the girl informed me. 
11 How odd that you should know so much 
tebout her and yet have never seen her ! She's 

tremendously pretty — very, very fair; her 
hair is almost white, and shines. When it's 
parted in the middle she looks a perfect saint, 
as if butter would never melt in her mouth — 
but it does. She says that she's as full of life 
as a kitten; and I tell her, and also of 
mischief — then she tries to scratch me. But, 
truly, she's a real good sort, and if you only 
stroke her the right way there's nothing she 
wouldn't do for anyone." 

The girl was perhaps a trifle incoherent; 
but she gave me a pretty clear idea of the 
person in the photograph. 

" Obviously, the first thing we have to do 
is to find out where your sister is," I told her 
as I went. " I promise nothing, but I think 
it's possible that I may be able to do that 
before very long — in time to permit of her 
reappearance before Mr. and Mrs. Godwin 
return to-morrow." 

After leaving the house I went to lunch 
at the King's Restaurant. I gathered, from 
certain trifles which I had noticed on the pre- 
ceding Friday, that this was the place at 
which Mr. George Ratton, the short, square, 
red-cheeked, blue-eyed young man, made it 
his custom to lunch. 

I had not been seated five minutes before 
he came in, going straight to a table which 
was evidently reserved for him, and which 
was not quite so well in my line of sight as I 
might have wished. Other tables were in the 
way, so that I could only see him clearly when 
he was in certain positions. It struck me that 
he looked worried, and that it was with an 
effort he smiled as he nodded to various 
acquaintances who were possibly, like himself, 
habituis. Nothing happened, except that 
food and drink were brought to him, which he 
seemed to enjoy. As both his meal and my 
own drew towards a conclusion, a person, 
whom I had already noticed, moved towards 
the table at which he was seated. 

This person looked as if he might be an 
actor — a comedian for choice. He was of 
barrel-like proportions ; a small, almost bald 
head, shaped like a Gouda cheese, and nearly 
of the same colour, was set on a short, thick 
neck, as a climax to his enormous body. His 
attire was striking. The ends of a bright 
blue necktie, tied ih one of those exaggerated 
bows which are dear to a certain type of 
French student, flowed loosely over an exten- 
sive shirt-front, which was of another shade 
of blue. He carried a wide-brimmed straw 
hat in his hand, and as he approached Mr. 
Ratton he waved it at him as a sort of salute. 
He stood where I could see him clearly — there 
was no mistaking what he said, 

a I I I _' I 1 1 




" Excuse me, sir, but might I have a word 
with you ? I believe you are Mn Ratton — 
George Ratton/' 

There was something flamboyant in the 
words he chose, in the way he pronounced 
them ; if he was not an actor, he ought to 
have been, Mr. Ratton seemed to eye him 
rather askance. 

M My name is Ratton, sir — but I have not 
the pleasure , I think, of knowing you," 

u I came here, Mr. Ratton/' said the stranger. 
" in the express hope of seeing you ; I have 
something f .o say to you which, I venture to 

point which necessitated my guessing at what 
had been already said. The strange- was 
leaning right over the table, and Mr, Ratton 
was still very red; as if he resented his words 
and manner, and his appearance altogether. 
The barrel-like man was saying, in what, 
no doubt j were bland, unctuous, softened 
tones : — 

" He was naturally hurt by the feeling 
that you had sold him/* 

I fancy Mr. Ratton's tones were consider- 
ably louder, and were certainly less bland, 

" I told him, and I tell you, that I won't 


assert, you will not only find interesting and 
important, but also to your advantage.' 1 

" What may that something be ? May I 
ask your name ? " 

" My name does not matter, sir— no, it 
does not matter." The speaker made a 
movement with his hat as if to signify how 
little it did matter. " With your permission, 
sir, I will take a seat.'* 

When he did sit down, without, so far as I 
could judge, having permission accorded him, 
I had to move my seat in order to get any- 
thing like a satisfactory sight both of Mr. 
Ratton and of him. This took some seconds, 
and I had to pick up the conversation at a 

have it said that. I sold him — I'll allow no 
one to say it." 

11 You tell him what to say to the young 
lady, then you tell the young lady what you 
said to him — what is the inference one draws ? 
In consequence, he is placed in an extremely 
unprofessional position — by you." 

Mr. Ratton seemed to be growing momen- 
tarily redder in the face. 

Li What he meant, and what you mean, by 
saying that I said a single word to the young 
lady is beyond me altogether, I told him it 
was a lie. I don't know T who you are, but I 
tell you the same." 

The stranger gave a little movement of his 




hand, as if deprecating the other's warmth ; 
he seemed calm enough. 

" However that may be, he was placed in 
an unprofessional position by someone — the 
fact remains. The young lady as good as 
told him he was a humbug. No man in his 
position cares to be spoken to like that, 
especially by a client on whom he had every 
reason to believe he was about to make a 
profound impression. No one, I am sure, 
can exaggerate the pain the whole affair has 
caused him — it touched him on his tenderest 
spot. He vowed he would be even with you 
both — for his reputation's sake. The conse- 
quence is that the young ladyhasdisappeared." 

" Disappeared ? What do you mean by 
telling me that the young lady has disap- 
peared ? " said Ratton, hastily rising. 

The big man, touching the tips of his fingers 
together, moved them softly to and fro. 

" The young lady has disappeared. That, 
Mr. Ratton, is what I mean." 

" If he has been playing any of his hanky- 
panky tricks with her I'll wring his long- 
drawn-out neck — that to begin with." 

" Why should there be what you describe as 
i hanky-panky tricks ' ? My dear sir, I come 
with an olive branch, not a sword. I believe 
that the dearest wish of your life is to marry 
this young lady. Very well ; I'm as good as 
authorized to say that opportunity can be 
afforded you to marry her at once." 

Mr. Ratton eyed the speaker in a very 
curious w ; ay, as if he heard what he said with 
emotions which were too strong for expression. 

" I can't talk about that sort of thing in 
here. I don't know who you are ; but, who- 
ever you are, you will be so good as to come 
to my rooms and I'll talk to you there." 

" Nothing could give me greater pleasure, 
Mr. Ratton, than to come to your rooms. 
There we shall be able to arrive at an under- 
standing of the most cordial kind in a very 
brief space of time." 

Mr. Ratton led the way. across the restau- 
rant, looking like a very excited country 
gentleman ; the barrel-shaped man followed, 
apparently enjoying to the full a delicious 
piece of comedy. I watched them go in a 
rather uncertain frame of mind ; their pre- 
cipitance was unexpected. I hardly knew 
whether to remain where I was or to follow 
them. A moment 1 * consideration — and I 
remained. Instead of hurrying away, I took 
my time over what remained of my luncheon. 
I was putting two and two together after a 
fashion of my own ; the more I reflected, 
the less hazy the situation became. If my 
inferences were right, I ought to be able to 

treat these gentlemen to ^mother act in the 
comedy which the barrel-shaped man seemed 
to be enjoying. 

To begin with, I sent a telegram to Miss 
May Godwin, as follows : — 

"lam coming to dine with your sister and 
you to-night. Trust that eight o'clock will 
be convenient. — Judith Lee." Then I sum- 
moned the head waiter. 

" Do you know a palmist who calls himself 

The man smiled benignantly ; I fancy he 
thought he saw something in my words 
which was not there. 

" Very well indeed, madam. He's one of 
our regular customers." 

" Do you know where he lives ? I thought 
you might be able to tell me." 

" As to where he lives, that I do not know j 
but the address at which he receives clients, 
that I do know. I will write it down for 

He wrote it down. Isolda's studio, as he 
called it — there are studios of so many 
different kinds — was in Bond Street, that 
popular resort of curious characters. At a 
quarter to four I paid him a call. His 
" studio " was, it seemed, on the first floor. 
At the top of a rather steep flight of stairs 
was a door painted black ; near the top, on 
the right-hand corner, in small red letters, 
was the word " Isolda." I knocked. The 
door was almost instantly opened by a 
youngish man. I entered without waiting 
for the invitation which something in his 
manner suggested that I might not have 
received. He eyed me askance. 

" What is your business, madam ? " 

I did not answer ; I was looking about me. 
I was in a sort of ante-room, apparently the 
young man's own quarters. On some pegs 
in a corner were a grey felt hat and a light- 
grey overcoat ; their presence gave me the 
clue I wanted. He repeated his question, 
it struck me, rather surlily. 

" I asked, madam, what ytrar business was." 

" I wish to see Mr. Isolda." 

" Has madam an appoiatment ? " 

" I have not." 

" Then it is impossible that madam can 
see him. Mr. Isolda only sees clients by 
appointment made several days ahead." 

" Is that so ? I rather fancy that he will 
make an exception in my case. I am going 
to see Mr. Isolda now." 

The man seemed doubtful, as if he did not 
know what to make of me. 

" I assure madam that it is impossible. 
Mr. Isolda only sees clients who have no 




appointment under very special circumstances 
for a very special fee." 

" Mr, Isolda will see me without any fee 
at ail," 

The young man sought in another direction 
for an explanation for what clearly struck 
him as my peculiar manner. 

" Perhaps madam is a friend of Mr- Isolda ? " 

" I am not — thank goodness I I am very 
much the other way. 
Young man ! ?I 

He started at the tone 
in which I said "Young 
man ! " He was probably 
older than I was. 

11 Madam!" he ex- 
claimed, as if about to 
remonstrate w T ith my in- 
clination towards over- 
familiarity. I allowed him 
to go no farther. 

11 This morning " I told 
him, " you called at a 
house in Hyde Park Gate, 
and you endeavoured to 
obtain, by false pretences, 
a writing-desk, a jewel- 
case, and a dressing-bag. 
Is there any reason why 
I should not at once give 
you into the custody of 
the police ? " 

The change which took 
place in that young man's 
manner ! All at once he 
seemed to go at the knees , 
as if a couple of hnches had 
gone from his stature, 

" I— I— 1 think you are 
making a mistake/ he 
stammered. Apparently 
he was under the impres- 
sion that he had to say 
something, and, as he 
didn't know what to say, 
he said that. 

11 Oh, no, Tm not, as 
you're perfectly well aware. 
Let me give you a piece 
of information. It is not impossible that the 
police will be here in a few minutes, on busi- 
ness with which you are not immediately 
concerned. If you are on the premises when 
they arrive you will < rrl.iinly be arrested 
with your principal, and unpleasantness will 
probably follow. If you prefer not to be 
found on the premises you can take yourself 
off. You are the best judge of which course 
you prefer;" 

.zed by Google 

He looked about him like a rat which seeks 
a way out of a trap ; glanced towards the 
door at the other side of the room, 

" No, you can't give Mr, Isolda warning. 
If you don^t want to be found, you'll make 
yourself scarce inside of thirty seconds by 
my watch." 

When he saw how I regarded it, he went 
straight to those pegs, took down the grey 


felt hat and the grey overcoat, put the hat 
on his head, the coat over his arm, and, 
without even so much as a word, went hur- 
riedly out of the door through which he had 
admitted me — still another illustration of how 
conscience can make a coward of a man. 
Within ten seconds of his going through one 
door I crowed the room and passed through 
another. It opened into a sort of passage- 
way, on either side of which were what I can 

• * "-■ I 111 I I rCl I I I 'm' 1 1 1 




only describe as cubicles, screened by heavy 
curtains. I presume that in them expectant 
clients waited until it pleased the great man 
to admit them to his presence. At the farther 
end of this passage-way a corridor branched 
off to the right and left ; there were doors 
in both directions. I stood still and listened ; 
voices were coming from a door on the left. 
I walked up to it, turned the handle, and 
ushered myself in. 

I found myself in what Isolda probably 
intended to be a really remarkable room ; it 
struck me as rather worse than tawdry. What 
appeared to be black velvet screened both 
the walls and ceiling ; a green carpet covered 
the floor ; in the centre was a table covered 
with a scarlet tablecloth ; on this table was 
what seemed to be a large, solid glass sphere. 
I believe that in Isolda' s trade an article of 
that kind is known as a " crystal." There 
were odds and ends about the room which 
were perhaps meant to be awe-inspiring, but 
which were merely silly. There seemed to 
b3 no window to the room, which reeked of 
what, perhaps, was some variety of incense. 
Although it was broad day outside and the 
sun was shining, a single electric light flamed 
in the ceiling. 

Three men were the occupants of what 
seemed to me to be this stuffy and extremely 
undesirable apartment — and as I stood there 
in the doorway facing them an exceedingly 
surprised three men they seemed to be. 
One was the great Isolda himself, another 
was Mr. George Ratton, and the third was 
the man with the barrel-body and the cheese- 
shaped head. They had, apparently, up to 
the moment of my entrance, been engaged 
in an animated discussion, which my unlooked- 
for appearance in the middle of it brought 
to a very awkward close. The great Isolda 
was the first to speak. 

" Who are you, and what do you want in 
here ? " 

He struck a bell which was on the scarlet- 
covered table. 

" It's no use your ringing that bell," I 
informed him. " The tool whom you sent 
to Hyde Park Gate this morning on a felonious 
errand has deemed it discreet to fly from the 
wrath which is coming." 

My words seemed not only to add to their 
surprise, but to confuse them. The long 
man and the round man eyed each other as 
if in doubt what this thing might be. Mr. 
Ratton said : — 

" Isolda, who is this young lady ? " 

I answered for the great Isolda. 

" I, Mr. Ratton, am Nemesis. Mr. Isolda, 

if I may add what seems to be an unaccus- 
tomed prefix, is a worker of wonders ; I 
represent that power which brings those won- 
ders to naught, proving them to be the poor 
antics of a clumsy charlatan." 

Isolda cried, with what he probably meant 
to be crushing dignity : — 

" Brayshaw, put this woman outside at 
once ! " 

The command seemed to be addressed to 
the barrel-shaped person. There was dignity 
neither in the manner of his approach nor in 
the words he used. 

" Now, young woman, out you go ! We've 
seen your sort before ; we want none of your 
nonsense here. Not another word — outside ! 
I don't want to touch you, but I sha'n't hesi- 
tate to do so if you make me." 

I smiled at the barrel-shaped man. The 
idea of such a creature putting me out of the 
room really was too funny. 

" I will recommend you, Mr. Brayshaw, 
not to touch me, unless you wish to discover 
what an extremely ugly customer a woman 
can be." 

He tried to touch me, stretching out his 
hand with, I fancy, the intention of taking 
me by the shoulder. I am quite sure before 
he knew what had struck him he was on his 
back on the floor. The others stared as if 
they had witnessed some remarkable feat; 
as a matter of fact, the man was as incapable 
of offering resistance to a normally robust 
person who had had even a smattering of 
physical training as if he had been a barrel of 

" If you will be advised by me, you will 
allow me to make the remarks I intend to 
make without any interruption, because, in 
any case, I intend to make them." 

Mr. Ratton made a movement as if to 
induce the great Isolda to act on my advice. 

" Let her speak. The lady seems to be a 
bit of a character. Are any of those remarks 
of yours meant for me, or would you rather I 
went ? " 

" I would rather you stayed. You, Mr. 
George Ratton, have conspired with this — 
creature against a young girl, whose honour 
and happiness it should have been your first 
duty to guard at the risk of your own." 

Mr. Ratton again went very red in the face 
— it was queer how red he did go. " What 
the dickens do you mean ? " he muttered. 

" Last Friday afternoon you bribed him to 
make certain statements to her, which you 
hoped would induce, and, indeed, practically 
compel, her to become your wife. A mon- 
strous marriage it would have been ! " 

by {j 



Ml I I _' I 1 1 




I then told him what some of those state- 
ments were. 

" How in thunder do you know that I said 
anything of the kind ? " He turned to 
Isolda. "Did you tell her? Is that the 
secret of your pretending that I gave the 
show away ? If you did " 

He clenched his fists — for the instant it 
looked as if matters might be breezy. I 

" Mr. Ratton, God sometimes uses the 
foolish to confound the wise, and gives to 
the weak power to bring the strong to con- 
fusion. Your accomplice charges you with 
having, to use your own phrase, given the 
show away. You attribute to him the same 
offence ; whereas it was I who gave you both 
away. I saw what you said ; I warned your 
intended victim over the telephone. She 
came to this man armed with a knowledge 
which enabled her to convict him of impos- 
ture out of his own mouth. The shame of 
his detection and of her plain speaking 
rankled. He sent her a telegram signed by 
the name of the man whom she intends to 
marry, asking her to meet him in Richmond 
Park. In Richmond Park she was met by 
one of this man's emissaries, who drugged 
and kidnapped her. He holds her at present 
in confinement, and sent this man just now 
to the King's Restaurant with a proposal to 
hand her over to you for a consideration, so 
that you might practise such vile arts as you 
thought proper to force her to become your 
wife and use her money to pay your debts — 
which are, some of them, as you are aware, 
of a very peculiar kind — and give you some- 
thing approaching a respectable position in 
society. How the law punishes such offences 
as yours you know ; I would put it instantly 
into action were it not that I am reluctant 
to allow that ignorant, innocent, unsuspect- 
ing child — in everything that counts she is 
but a child — to run the risk of becoming the 
leading figure in a hideous public scandal. 
If she is back again in her own home, sound 
in mind and body, this evening by seven 
o'clock sharp, I may keep silent. If she is 
not, by a quarter past warrants shall be issued 
against all three of you." 

On that I went, leaving them to make such 
comments on their visitor as they might 
think most appropriate. More than once 
during the intervening two or three hours I 
wondered if I had been wise ; if, for the girl's 
sake, I ought not to have taken more active 
steps to bring them to a proper sense of what 
the situation required. It was with feelings 
which were distinctly mixed that I alighted 

Digitized by Git 

from the taxi-cab which drew up at the door 
of the house in Hyde Park Gate a few minutes 
before eight. The moment, however, that 
the door was opened I knew that my know- 
ledge of masculine human nature had not 
been at fault, and that my fears, at least in 
one direction, had been baseless. As I 
entered the hall I saw May's dainty face peep- 
ing over the staircase. When she saw who 
it was she came rushing down the stairs, two 
or three at a time, and tore towards me. 
When she was, to all intents and purposes, 
in my arms, she whispered : — 

" Oh, Miss Lee ! Miss Lee ! Lucille has come 
home. Do come upstairs and see her." 

I went upstairs, and on the threshold of 
the drawing-room there stood a tall, slim 
maiden, dressed in some wonderful concoction 
of cornflower-blue, with flaxen hair, in which 
there was a natural waving ripple, which was 
parted in the middle and brushed close to her 
well-shaped head. I thought of what her 
sister had told me. In a sense she certainly 
did look as if butter would not melt in her 
mouth ; all the same, as May had admitted, 
I felt sure that it would. There was that 
light and laughter in her eyes which, when one 
is very young, goes hand in hand with mis- 

"I am Lucille Godwin ; it was you who 
sent me that telephone message ? I put an 
advertisement in the paper asking whoever 
it was to communicate with me. It is just 
as well you did, because I meant to put it in 
again and again until you answered." 

" Have you anything to do," asked May, 
" with her being here now ? " 

" There have been certain incidents since 
I saw you this morning. I don't know if 
there will be time to speak of them before 
dinner is ready," 

" Dinner won't be ready till at least half- 
past eight, so just you tell us everything. 
Please — please ! I'm -simply boiling over 
with wanting to know." 

I told them what had happened since the 
morning. Their excitement was amusing. 
They interrupted me with interjections, 
ejaculations, exclamations of horror and 
surprise. When I had finished Lucille clasped 
her hands in front of her with what might 
almost have been the rapt enthusiasm of a 
mediaeval saint; she looked the character, 

" Oh, it's just simply wonderful. Listening 
to you sends little thrills all up and down my 
back. Do you know you're a miracle-worker, 
Miss Lee ? " 

" Should I be intruding myself upon your 




confidence if I ask where you have been since 
last Tuesday ? " I replied. 

" That's just it — I don't know. Isn't it 
awful ? But I tell you what I do know. I 
took a cab up to Richmond Park gate. 
Instead of Jack, whom I was dying to see, 
a dapper little man, in a grey overcoat and 
a grey felt hat " 

" The same man/' interposed May, " it 
must have been, who wanted her jewel-case 
and things." 

" I saw that grey overcoat and grey felt 
hat this afternoon," I observed. 

" He said that Jack was waiting with a 
motor down by the Penn Ponds. Something 
had happened to the. engine, and he was 
waiting to see it put right. Would I mind 
walking down to him ? I thought it rather 
odd, but I didn't see what elsfcl could do, so 
I walked down. As we went— ^1 remember 
we were right off the road, close to a planta- 
tion — the man took a box out of his pocket, 
and said Mr. Upcott had told him to give it to 
me. When I opened it there were chocolates 
inside. Of course, Jack knows how fond I 
am of chocs, and I supposed he sent them to 
beguile the way. I put one in my mouth 
and I bit it in half. It seemed to be full of 
some queer - tasting liqueur, which I had 
swallowed before I knew it, and — that's all 
I remember." 

"What do you mean by ' that's all I 
remember ' ? " 

" I mean what I say. The next thing I do 
remember is that I had rather a headache 
and was feeling stupid, "ahtf Wouldn't make out 
where I was. Then all at'^fibe I realized 
that I was in a railway carriage which was 
standing at a platform, and that an official 
+ of some sort was at the open door of 
the compartment, looking at me as if he 
wondered what was wrong. ' Your ticket, 
please, miss. Isn't that it in your hand ? ' 
There was something in my hand ; I held 
it out to him ; he took it, and off he went, 
so I suppose it was my ticket ; but how it 
got there, or where it was from, I have not the 
vaguest notion. Presently the train stopped 
again. I asked a porter who came to the 
door what station it was. ' Waterloo, miss. 
Any luggage ? ' I told him that I had no 
luggage, but I wanted him to get me a taxi- 
cab. He got me one ; and here I am. 
That's every bit I know about it. W'ho's 
that at the front door ? It can't be " 

Who it could not be she did not say. These 
were lively young ladies. May rushed to the 
door and listened. Footsteps were heard 
ascending the staircase. May threw the door 

by t^ 



wide open and a tall young man came in, his 
countenance wreathed in smiles. 

" Oh, Jack ! " cried Miss Lucille Godwin. 
" Oh, you darling, darling Jack ! " 

Almost before I knew it, and quite regard- 
less of my presence, she was in the new- 
comer's arms. He seemed a hearty young 

" You are a nice sort," he told her. 
" Directly after I wrote you that note from 
Nice, I won a handful at the tables ; with it 
I bought a necklace, which I felt bound to 
bring you straight away ; so here I am, and 
here's the necklace." ^ 

He held out to her a string of gleaming 
stones which he had taken from ^leather case. 

" Oh, Jack, what a beautiful necklace ! 
What a treasure you are ! Please will you 
put it on ? " 

As we watched he fastened it round her 
lovely neck. For all they seemed to care, 
May and I might not have been present. The 
girl said to him, with a demure look: — 

" Now, Jack, I forgive you. If you only 
knew what a wretch I've felt, a»d how I've 
wanted you ! " 

" Well, you won't have to want any longer." 

As the young man was saying this, in what 
I take was his heartiest manner, a footman 
appeared at the door to inform us that dinner 
was served. Jack took me down, the two 
girls following arm in arm behind,. I have 
seldom spent a livelier evening. 

The next morning, when I went to Bond 
Street, I found that Isolda was missing, as I 
had anticipated might be the case. Itseejns 
possible that he had kept that helpless girl 
unconscious for two whole days by means of 
repeated injections of one of the numerous 
'preparations of morphine, as doctors nowadays 
keep patients in the later stagzs of cancer 
oblivious of their sufferings sometimes for 
weeks ; nor might it have been the first time 
he had tried the same villainous trick. He 
probably still practises on feminine credulity 
elsewhere ; but, so far as I know, he has not 
reappeared in London. Nothing has been 
seen either of him or of his barrel-shaped 
friend. Lucille Upcott — she has not long 
been back from her honeymoon — told me the 
other day, with that demure air which, where 
she is concerned, may mean anything, that 
she had recently heard that Mr. George Ratton 
had established himself on a ranch in Argen- 
tina. Whether Mr. Upcott had been made 
acquainted with the various passages which 
marked a certain week I cannot say — 
whenever I see him he seems to radiate 

Original from 



following article 

has been 

written by 



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with tlie 







approved by His 



This is 



occasion upon 

wKieh permission 

for auch 

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blisbed baa been 

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to any 

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to this 


are of special interest and 



once called by the late Mar- 
quess of Salisbury " the most 
misjudged man in the 
world/' and this is 
certainly true to a 
very large extent. 
One has to be brought into intimate 
personal contact with him to realize 
the sterling worth of his character. 
In fact, it might be said 
that there are two Kaisers 
— one who appears upon 
the surf ace f and the real 
man who underlies it all. 
Those who know him least 
refer to him as the " fire- 
brand of Europe," but 
nothing could be wider of 
the mark. As a matter of 
fact he is, and always has 
been, a great asset towards 
assuring the peace of the 
world. This may be deemed 
rather a startling assertion 
to make j but it is hoped 
before this article 1 is com- 
pleted to produce at le&st 
some evidence in support 
of the statement, 

Undoubtedly Wil- 
helm II. does not be- 
lieve in " hiding his 
light under a bushel/' 
and none can deny 
that at times he has 
intervened in ques- 
tions that neither di- 
rectly concerned him 
nor Germany. Neither 
have his actions al- 
ways been well ad- 
vised, Upon the other 

hand .on more than one occasion he has acted 
for good. His is one of the most active brains 
in the world, and it may be said that he never 
rests. Even when on board his 
yacht he keeps constantly in touch 
with all that is transpiring through- 
out the world , and discusses the 
even is of the day with those about 
him at considerable length, He is 
strikingly original in his 
views, but he has a faci- 
lity for laying his finger 
upon the real crux of 
any subject that comes 
under notice* 

He has a very great 

liking for England and 

the English people, and 

an affection fur the 

memory of the late 

Queen Victoria that 

almost amounts to 

veneration. He once 

said to a group of 

his officers that the 

two wisest and best 

monarch s that ever 

existed were Queen 

Victoria and his 

grandfather, the 

Emperor Wilhelm I. 

" With two such 

grandparents/' he 

added, with one of 

his whimsical smiles, 

" I ou^ht to make a 

successful ruler/' He 

frankl v confesses that 

he has taken these 

two as his models 

throughout his life, 

and that when any 

crisis arises he asks 

Frrmi a Photograph h V W. J& Stuart. HifhftiQnd 

Original from 

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FTf>m a Photoffrapk b# World** Graphic 

himself what they would have done in like 
circumstances, and, so far as lies in his 
power ^ he endeavours to mould his attitude 
upon similar lines. 

There is very considerable friendship 
between the Kaiser and King George, and 
the two rulers exchange letters at frequent 
intervals* The Emperor hopes that it may 
be convenient for him to pay a short visit 
to this country every year in the future, and 
it remains to be seen how far this will be pos- 
sible* Of necessity these visits will, for the 
most part, be of a strictly private character 
and will usually be spent at Windsor, unless 
the Kaiser's old affection for yacht-racing 
is revived and he decides to resume those 
annual trips to Cowes that he used to pay 
regularly a few years ago. 

The Emperor is often referred to as 
"Europe's busiest monarch, 15 and this is 
well deserved. Not only is he the head of a 
great Empire, but, as has been said, he interests 
himself in many matters that do not directly 
concern him . Thus he has made it his business 
to pay visits to practically every European 
monarch and to pass a few days with them, 
in order that he might become personally 
acquainted with them and learn to study 
their characteristics and their general attitude 
towards questions of international importance, 
It is certain that since the death of the late 
King Edward no living ruler is so well known 
to the Royalties of Europe as is the Kaiser ; 
not even excepting the veteran Emperor of 

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JVeM, Ltd. 


Austria j who has, 
indeed, gone into 
almost complete 
retirement of late 

The Kaiser 
makes it a rule to 
correspond with 
many of his fellow- 
monarchs. He has 
a passion for 
letter-writing, and 
disdains the arti- 
ficial aid of the 
typewriter for cor- 
respondenceof this 
importance. He 
is an excellent 
linguist, and can 
converse as 
fluently in either 
French or English 
as he can in his 
native tongue. 
Indeed, he has 
that he cannot 
taught German 

been heard to declare 
recall whether he was 
or English first. The latter is quite probable, 
since the Emperor's first nurse was an English- 
woman. His letters have been described as 
" real letters," since they embody the spirit 
of the writer to a very considerable extent. 
He takes the greatest pains" with his com- 
munications, and will often pass an hour or 
two writing and re-writing one of these letters. 
It may be added that it is only very rarely 
that His Majesty honours those not of Royal 
birth with a letter written entirely by himself ; 
but among the few who receive these epistles 
from time to time is the Earl of Lonsdale, 
one of His Majesty's oldest and closest friends. 

There is a great deal in common between the 
Kaiser and King George. This is a factor that, 
perhaps, deserves to be taken into considera- 
tion by those who talk so glibly of the pos- 
sibility of war between the two countries. 
There was an interesting little incident that 
escaped general notice when the Emperor was 
in London in May of last year, for the unveil- 
ing of the National Memorial to the late 
Queen Victoria by the King. 

At the conclusion of the ceremony their 
Majesties, accompanied by Queen Mary and 
the German Empress, and followed by several 
other members of the Royal Family, ascended 
the steps of the monument in order to inspect 
it more closely. When they prepared to 
return the two monarchs stood on one side 
to allow their respective consorts to precede 




them, and the Emperor then drew the 
arm of King George through his own in most 
affectionate fashion and conversed gravely 
with him during the whole time it took to 
return to Buckingham Palace. One cannot 
help wondering the meaning of that earnest 
conversation } and how far it contributed to 
ensure the peace of Europe. 

The Kaiser is an extremely early riser ; 
indeed, it has been said of him that he never 
sleeps. In each of the Royal palaces his 
private study is situated very close to his 
bedroom , and His Majesty is often at work 
at an hour when thousands of his subjects 
are just turning over in their beds and 
preparing for another hour or two before their 
daily round commences. His Majesty is a 
strong believer in the old doctrine that an 
hour's work in the morning, when all one's 
faculties are alert ^ is worth two at night. 
Not that he is by any means averse to 
evening labour ; indeed, he has been known 
to return from a performance at the Opera 
House in Berlin close upon midnight, and at 
once set to work upon some important 
despatches that had arrived since he quitted 
the palace, A point that the Kaiser and 1 he 
late King Edward had in common is that 
each was an extremely quick worker. The 
Emperor no sooner seems to examine a 
document than he has made himself the 
master of its contents. The amount of work 
that he gets through in the course of a day- 
is positively sur- 
prising, Though 
he has a large 
staff of very 
highly-trained pri- 
vate secretaries j 
it takes them all 
their time to keep 
pace with him t 
and very often 
they are no sooner 
engaged upon one 
subject than they 
are called upon 
to take over 

It has here to 
be confessed that 
the Kaiser is no- 
t h ing like so 
methodical as is 
King George* 
With the latter 
method and order 

refuses to deal with one subject until another 
is finally disposed oL The Kaiser, upon the 
other handbill take up half-a-dozen matters 
simultaneously and deal with them at one 
and the same time. He may be ; for instance, 
dictating a letter to one of his Ministers of 
State when some question concerning the 
army or the navy of his Empire will occur to 
him, and he will suddenly— and often without 
the least warning to those in attendance — 
divert himself to that, Consequently the 
notes of those who are to transmit his instruc- 
tions to the proper quarters are often in a 
very confused slate, and it takes them some 
little time to get them into proper order. 

No one can be long in the presence of the 
Emperor before realizing that the German 
navy is a still greater obsession with him 
than his army. His Majesty takes no 
little pride in the fact that the German fleet, 
inferior in every respect only to our own, is 
practically his own creation, since, when he 
ascended the Throne, the German navy was 
entirely a negligible quantity. One of his 
most confidential advisers expressed the fear 
not so very long ago that the Emperor's 
devotion to the navy might lead to the 
lessening of his interest in the army, with 
possibly rather serious consequences. Thisis, 
however, not the case, and recent events 
seem to indicate that His Majesty has 
realized the fact that an all-powerful army 
is much more important to Germany than a 


and he resolutely 


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From a ftotoprj^A &y Witlii Grcij^i*' Fit*}, Ltd. 




fleet that can, after all, never hope lo chal- 
lenge the supremacy of Great Britain upon the 
high seas. 

This brings up another characteristic of the 
Kaiser, which is the fact that he is a very 
poor financier. Indeed, he frankly confesses 
that his knowledge of figures is of little more 
than an elementary character, and that he is 
more than a trifle bored when he is called 
upon to deal with them. It is upon finance 
more than anything else that His Majesty 
has disagreed with his Ministers, and the 
Imperial Chan- 
cellor has at 
times no very 
thankful office, 
since the Kaiser 
does not al- 
ways seem to 
recognize that 
neither he nor 
his Empire 
have unlimited 
resources to 
draw upon, and 
that the strain 
of maintaining 
the premier 
army of the 
world and 
organizing a 
navy that shall 
seriously com- 
pete with that 
ofGreat Britain 
is one that is 
too great to be 
homeland that 
in one direction 
or another is 
an imperative 

* Retrench- 
ment/ 3 indeed, 
is a word that 

is anathema to the Emperor, and neither in 
his public nor his private life does he pause to 
consider the expense into which he is running* 
His private income is, of course, very con- 
siderable^ but there have been times when he 
has been distinctly u hard-up." and his 
Ministers and responsible advisers have been 
hard put to it to provide sufficient sums to 
enable him to carry out the schemes upon 
which he has embarked, 

The sea appeals to the Emperor with a 
force that is really extraordinary, and he is 
seldom so happy as when he is on board his 

Frvrn a Pkoioffrapk by Record Pro*. 

by Google 

yacht Hohenzollern f and never a year passes 
without his contriving to spend a good deai 
of his time in this fashion. His usual com- 
panion is his only daughter, the Princess 
Victoria Louise, to whom he is devoted. 
Indeed , it is quite pretty to observe the great 
affection that exists between His Majesty and 
the Princess. They have taken many lengthy 
trips together, visiting almost every portion 
of the waters of Europe, It is on the deck of 
his yacht more than anywhere else that the 
Kaiser throws off his many State worries 

and unbends to 
a degree that is 
quite unknown 
when he is on 
shore. He 
laughs and 
chats with 
those about 
him and the 
officers of the 
ship in most 
friendly style, 
and will often 
join a group in 
order to hear an 
amusing anec- 
dote , or to 
listen to some 
interesting re- 

As is well 
known, the 
Kaiser is a very 
enthu siastic 
musician. Not 
only does he 
play several 
himself , but the 
private band 
upon the Royal 
yacht Hohen- 
zollern is one 
of the finest 
bodies for its size that have ever been 
got together, every man being a picked 
musician. The band is kept almost con- 
stantly playing, the programme being 
usually selected by His Majesty personally. 
The Kaiser, as many will be aware, has 
composed several pieces himself, and a former 
officer of the Royal yacht tells rather an 
amusing story in this connection. A few 
years ago, during a cruise, the Kaiser stopped 
suddenly and listened to a piece that the 
band was playing, u What a horrible noise ! ** 
he exclaimed^ and sent one of his attendants 

Original from 



1SSH6 AM fflBBffl 

to discover the name of the composer. The 
officer came back, and, scarcely able to conceal 
a smile, he informed His Majesty that it was 
one of his own compositions. The Kaiser, 
the story continues, frowned heavily for a 
moment, and then saw the joke of it and 
laughed heartily, as did those about him. It 
was noted, however, that the piece promptly 
disappeared from the repertoire of the band. 
There is on board the HohenzoUern an 
extremely spacious cabin where the Emperor 
transacts such business of State as will not 
permit of delay. Three or four of his secre- 
taries are close at hand, and so soon as the 
mail-bags are re- 
ceived on board 
His Majesty 
plunges into their 
contents with 
almost feverish 
haste, and he has 
been known to 
give directions 
that he is not to 
be disturbed 
even for meals 
when there has 
been something 
of more than 
ordinary import- 
ance to receive 
attention. The 
German Emperor 
gives a closer and 
more personal 
attention than 
probably any 
other monarch 
in the world 
to matters of 
national import- 
ance, while, at 
the same time, 
he is content to 
leave very little 
to his Ministers. Thus, in many of the 
important questions in which the German 
Empire has been concerned of late years, 
the policy pursued by that Power has 
been directly dictated by His Majesty, 
even, upon occasions, when he has been 
directly opposed by his responsible Ministers. 
The Kaiser has one of the most powerful 
personalities in the world, and it is but rarely 
that he fails to impress his views upon those 
with whom he is brought into contact, and 
ultimately to gain his own way. Probably 
the person who has the most influence over 
his political actions is his brother, Prince 

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jirrrjiirrjij j 

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m=j4f^ i \jm 


Henry of Prussia. The Kaiser, by the way, 
is one of the most pronounced opponents of 
woman's suffrage to be found. He holds — 
and at times he expresses his views with con- 
siderable vigour of language — that women 
have no right to seek to meddle with politics 
in any shape or form, and he sternly dis- 
courages any reference to these subjects on 
the part of the Empress and his daughter. 

Queen Mary once scored off His Majesty 
rather neatly. The Emperor was holding 
forth at some length upon the unfittedness 
of women for admission to the franchise. 
" What can they know of politics ? " he 

fiercely. " Just 
about as much 
as a man knows 
of the organiza- 
tion of a nursery 
and the rearing 
of a family/' re- 
marked Queen 
Mary, quietly. 
The hit was much 
appreciated by 
those present, 
since, during the 
whole of his visit, 
the Kaiser had 
paid constant 
visits to the 
nursery of the 
Prince of Wales 
and his younger 
brothers, and 
had given many 
more or less use- 
ful hints to those 
charged with 
the care of the 

Reference has 
previously been 
made to the 
liking that the Kaiser evidently possesses 
for Great Britain and its people. His affec- 
tion for the late King Edward was much more 
deeply rooted than the outside world will ever 
know. When the news was broken to him 
that his beloved uncle had passed away, those 
about him declare that the Emperor utterly 
broke down — possibly the only occasion upon 
record — and, putting his head on his arm, 
sobbed quietly to himself for several moments. 
Once he had recovered from the first shock, 
however, the innate man of action asserted 
himself. As though half-ashamed of the 
weakness into which he had been betrayed, 




he gruffly,, and in his most peremptory 

instructions for instant 


manner, gave 

parations to be made for his immediate 
departure for Lon d on , adding that his severest 
displeasure would be incurred by anyone who 
delayed for even a few moments. 

Another Englishman for whom the Kaiser 
always had a great and sincere admiration 
was of a very different type from the late 
King Edward. It was Cecil John Rhodes. 
The great South African statesman deeply 
impressed the Kaiser with his abilities and 
force of personality when they had their 
famous meeting 
to discuss the 
future construc- 
tion of the trans- 
African railway 
and telegraph 
lines, Rhodes 
tried his hardest 
to get even the 
smallest strip of 
the h inter land 
of German East 
Africa ceded to 
Great Britain, in 
order to realize 
his great ambi- 
tion that the line 
from Cape Town 
to Cairo should 
run solely 
through British 
territory. The 
Emperor was in- 
flexible upon the 
point, however, 
and ultimately a 
compromise was 
arrived at, "I 
will find a way 
somehow/ 1 said 
Rhodes, during 
the discussion, 
The Emperor 
looked at him 
rather curiously. 
" There are only 
tw r o persons in 
the world en titled 
to say 4 1 will * in that emphatic manner, 
and I am one of them/' he remarked. 
Rhodes smiled broadly. " That is quite 
right," he retorted ; u I am the other one." 

In many ways does the Emperor show his 
liking for this country- One to which refer- 
ence may be made is the annual invitations 
he sends to the heads of the British Army to 

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witness the grand manoeuvres of the German 
forces. Such of our generals as are able to 
accept these invitations are immediately 
made honoured guests, and are frequently 
entertained at His Majesty's own table, while 
privileges are accorded to them that are not 
granted to any officers of other nations. The 
Kaiser has the greatest admiration for the 
military abilities of the Duke of Connaught, 
and during the many occasions that his 
Royal Highness has witnessed the work of 
the German troops in the field the Emperor 
has kept him constantly by his side and has 

eagerly discussed 
the various hap- 
penings of the day 
with him as they 
took place. " I 
never talk upon 
military matters 
with the Duke of 
Connaught/' he 
once remarked to 
a group of his 
officers, M but he 
teaches me some- 
thing I did not 
know before." 

It has been 
said with con- 
siderable truth 
that the Kaiser 
is never so happy 
as when he is 
changing from 
one uniform to 
another. The 
number of these 
that he possesses 
is simply wonder- 
ful , and there is 
certainly no other 
monarch in the 
world who can 
appear in so many 
changes of garb. 
At each of the 
Royal palaces 
several rooms are 
given up to the 
storage of His 
Majesty's personal clothing, and every- 
thing is so arranged that his body servants 
can lay their hands upon any particular 
uniform required at a moment's notice, 
Each complete outfit, down to the spurs and 
the shoulder-knots^ are placed in separate 
airtight boxes specially manufactured to 

hold them. ..These .are all conspicuously 
Origin a ITrom 




numbered on the outside, so that they may 
be forthcoming the moment they are wanted. 
To be kept waiting for a moment longer than 
he thinks absolutely necessary causes the 
greatest annoyance to His Majesty t who 
stamps about the room in a state of great 
indignation until the object required — what^ 
ever it may be — is forthcoming. 

When His Majesty travels, the amount of 
luggage that he takes with him is positively 
enormous, while it needs a very considerable 
retinue to attend to him. The Hohenzollern 
contains very considerable stowage capacity, 
and this is severely taxed when His Majesty 
leaves to pay a State visit to another 
European ruler. The late King Edward once 

contain at least one picture from his brush., 
including Windsor Castle, Buckingham Palace, 
Balmoral (where a pair of extremely well- 
drawn shooting-pictures are displayed), San- 
dringhamj and Marlborough House. Mention 
of these works of art by the Kaiser recalls 
the fact that he likewise contributed a sketch 
in w T hat may, perhaps, be termed the " vigor- 
ously impressionistic J * school to the unique 
collection that Queen Alexandra and the 
Empress Marie of Russia jointly own on the 
shores of the Sound, close to Copenhagen. 
The pictures in the drawing-room here are 
all by Royal artists, and are one of the most 
interesting little collections that have ever 
been got together. 

Suitplifft 1*1/ Exztv*iw. y'evt Agent]/. 

got off a sly joke over this trait in his nephew's 
character. It was at the time that Sand ring- 
ham was being enlarged and an additional 
storey added. A visit from the Emperor was 
looked for a few weeks later. One of the 
guests staying at Sandringham during the 
progress of the work ventured to ask to what 
purposes the additional apartments were to 
be put, M Oh, they are merely to provide 
fitting and sufficient accommodation for the 
Kaiser's personal luggage," returned the late 
King, with one of his quiet smiles and a 
characteristic twinkle of the eye. 

Another favourite hobby of the Kaiser's 
is painting, and he is a really capable artist, 
with a leaning towards seascapes. While 
at sea he passes much of his time in sketching 
and painting, and examples of his work are 
to be seen in many of the Royal palaces of 
Europe, Most of our own Royal residences 

The story goes that the Royal sisters were 
staying at their villa when the Kaiser's con- 
tribution arrived. They examined it for 
some moments and praised it, and then the 
Queen - Mother mischievously said to the 
Empress, " By the way, I wonder which is 
the right side up ? " 

There has been for many years past a very 
close friendship between the Emperor and 
Queen Alexandra, and Her Majesty has 
described him upon several occasions lately 
as " having been more than a brother to 
her since the death of King Edward/' The 
moment he arrived in this country aftet the 
death of the late King, His Majesty at once 
placed his services unreservedly at the dis- 
posal of both King George and Queen Alex- 
andra, and was the means of lightening their 
sad labours very considerably. He insisted 
upon taking ov-tr a Lirge number of the duties 




connected with the State funeral of the King, 
that otherwise King George would have had 
to attend to personally ; and the whole of 
the time he was most solicitous concerning 
the health of Queen Alexandra, and in a 
thousand little ways, that will assuredly 
never be forgotten by any who witnessed 
them, endeavoured to show her that her great 
grief was shared by him to the full. 
There is much that one cannot help liking 

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m m ' ML 

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THE KAISER S LUVii Ul AlilliUC bOClklV- -111 la 1'iliJlOL.ttAril, lAl^N' 




From, a PK&totPvph bv H*wrd Prtm. 

in the character of Wflhelm IL, and it is 
those who know him best who best appreciate 
him. Imperious and autocratic to a degree 
he undoubtedly is, and he has a will of iron 
that hates to be diverted from its purpose. 
He is also extremely hasty in his judgments 
as much as in his actions. No one is more 
quick to realize his failures, however, than 
he is himself, and he has been known after a 
heated outburst to go to the Minister or 
official who provoked his wrath almost imme- 


diately afterwards and offer his apologies, 
and agree that a different course from what 
he had at first demanded would possibly be 
the wisest. An apt case in point is the 
famous telegram that His ^fajesty sent to the 
late President Paul Kriiger, upon his defeat 
of the Raiders under Dr. Jameson. It is 
asserted by those who were about the German 
and British Courts at that time that the 
Emperor was heard within a day or two, and 
when he had had time to 
consider fully the possible 
seriousness of the action, 
frequently to express regret 
that he had ever allowed 
himself to put pen to paper 
on the subject; and it is 
stated that the Emperor 
at once wrote very fully to 
Queen Victoria on the mat- 
ter, reiterating his regrets 
and explaining the circum- 
stances that led up to the 
dispatch of the wire. 

Curiously enough, he has 
little or no Hking for any 
outdoor sport, with the 
exception of shooting and, 
of course, yachting. Shoot- 
ing, however, no longer 
appeals to him with the 
same force that it did when 
he was a younger man, and 
he has of late shown an 
ever - increasing tendency 
lo devote himself more to 
intellectual pursuits. Refer- 
ence has already been made 
to his skill as an artist, 
Reading takes up a good 
proportion of his spare 
time, and he follows closely 
every development in the 
literature of the principal 
countries of the world. Any 
new movement, be it in 
either art, literature, or 
philosophy, has always a 
very strong attraction for the Kaiser, The 
advance and development of medical science, 
too, strongly appeals to him, and he has 
devoted much of his time lately to studying 
the efforts that are being made at the moment 
to stamp out the cancer scourge. 

There are very extensive libraries at each 
of the palaces of the Kaiser, and he has made 
many notable additions to them since he 
came to the Throne. He cannot, however, 
be described as a bibliophile in the strict 




sense of the word, and, as a matter of fact, 
the number of old or rare books that he has 
purchased has been comparatively small It 
is of the greatest interest, however, to examine 
the many thousands of volumes of modern 
works that he has amassed. As might be 
expected from one of his essentially warlike 
temperament j books dealing with naval and 
military campaigns all over the world greatly 
predominate here. At each of the Kaisers 
residences his private library is so arranged 
that any book he requires can instantly be 
placed before him. 

Though, as has been said, the Kaiser is 
not seen out shooting toniay so frequently 
as was the case a few years ago, he is still a 
first-rate shot, and this is rather surprising, 
considering his physical infirmity, which is, 
however, nothing like so great as is some- 
times asserted. He is likewise very expert 
at pig-sticking, though this is a sport that he 
but rarely indulges in now, owing to the 
representations of the danger that he thereby 
runs that have been made to him from time 
to time by the Empress and his advisers 
generally. His hunting and shooting pre- 
serves are still very extensive, though he has 
parted with several of them during recent 
years, and he makes it a practice to entertain 

a succession of shooting parties each year. 
His Majesty greatly hopes to be joined at 
one of these by King George and Queen Mary 
towards the end of the present year. 

Motoring is another pastime that does not 
find a very great amount of favour in the 
eyes of the Emperor, though the Crown 
Prince, upon the other hand, is a most 
enthusiastic motorist. Whenever possible 
the Kaiser prefers to ride on horseback, and 
for the sake of his health takes an hour's 
exercise every morning whenever this is at 
all possible. It has been truly said, by the 
way, that His Majesty never looks so well as 
he does on a horse. 

There can be no doubt that the Kaiser is 
one of the most striking personages of his 
time, and one who has stamped himself deeply 
upon contemporary events. There can be no 
question of his single-hearted devotion to his 
people and the Fatherland, but one wants to 
know him more intimately than the outside 
world ever will to realize the true worth of his 
character. In many ways his disposition is 
one filled with curious contrasts^ and he will 
indeed be a bold man who would venture 
upon any occasion to prophesy precisely what 
course Wilhelm IT will adopt upon any subject 
that may come under his notice. 


— -- 


i of Mftwrt* Anuttr d Rxtli*ftfi n 5 I f TO ITl 



A Benevolent Character. 


Illustrated ty H. M. Brock, R.L 

YOUTH came into the small 
tobacconist's and inquired, 
across the counter, whether 
there happened to be in the 
neighbourhood a branch estab- 
lishment of a well-known firm 
(mentioned by name) dealing 
in similar goods and guaranteeing to save 
the consumer thirty-three per cent. He 
required the information, it appeared, 
because he contemplated buying a packet 
of cigarettes. 

No, said the proprietor (after he finished 
his speech and the youth had gone), not 
quite the limit. Near to the edge, I admit ; 
but remembering my friend, Mr. Ardwick, 
I can't say it's what you'd call the highest 
possible. It was a privilege to know 
Ardwick ; he was, without any doubt what- 
soever, a masterpiece. I've given up all 
hopes of ever finding his equal. 

He was a customer here at the time Mrs. 
Ingram had the shop — and when I say cus- 
tomer, of course I don't mean that he ever 
handed over a single halfpenny. Mrs. Ingram 
had only been a widow for about a twelve- 
month, and naturally enough she liked 
gentlemen's society ; and Ardwick, after he 
got his compensation out of the County 
Council — that, by the by, was one of his 
triumphs — he had nothing else to do, and 
he became very much attached to that chair 
what you're sitting in now. He'd call in to 
have a look at the morning paper, and read 
it through from start to finish ; later in 
the day he'd call to see the evening paper, 
and keep tight 'old of it till he'd come to the 
name of the printers at the foot of the last 
page. Between whiles he'd pretend to make 

Digiiiz&d by tiOOQIC 

himself handy at dusting the counter, and 
help himself to a pipe of tobacco out of the 
shag-jar. It was a pretty sight to see old 
Ardwick before he left of an evening talk 
about the way the rich robbed the poor, as 
he filled a pocket with matches out of the 

Having caught sight of Mrs. Ingram's 
pass-book that she was sending to the bank 
— he offered to post it, and walked all the 
way to Lombard Street and stuck to the 
twopence — Ardwick makes up his mind to 
take the somewhat desp'rate step of proposing 
to Mrs. I. 

" Very kind of you." she says, " but I 
fancy, Mr. Ardwick, you're a shade too 
stingy to run in double harness with me. 
Poor Ingram," she says, " was always free- 
handed with his money, and if I should ever 
get married again it will have to be to some- 
one of a similar disposition. But thank you 
all the same," she says, " for asking ! " 

Ardwick ran across his friend Kimball in 
Downham Road that evening and lent him 
a match, and said Kimball was the very 
party he wanted to meet. They had a long, 
confidential sort of talk together outside the 
fire-station, and they came to such high words 
that a uniformed man, who was talking to 
one of his girls, threatened to turn the hose 
on them. The two strolled down Kingsland 
Road in a cooler frame of mind, and when 
they said " Good night " at the canal bridge 
Kimball promised to do the best for Mr. 
Ardwick that lay in his power. Kimball 
explained that he was not going to do it out 
of friendship, but mainly because his wife 
had recently docked his allowance, and, in 
consequence, he felt a grudge against the 
sex in generic 




" I promise you/' said Mr, Ardwick, still 
shaking his hand, (t that you won't lose over 
the transaction." 

11 Knowing you as I do/' remarked Kimball, 
ce I quite recognize that it'll take a bit of 
doing to make anything out of it," 

I'm, if anything, a trifle close with my money* 
I should like to prove to you, ma'am, that 
you are doing me an injustice, and to prove 
it I'm going to adopt a very simple plan," 

11 Have you brought back that watch of 
mine I gave you to get mended ? J * 

Hc3 taXl in feKave 

& look at mfc morning p*; 

Mr, Ardwick was in the shop, here } the 
following afternoon, Mrs. Ingram was sur- 
prised to see him at that hour, and she locks 
up the till pretty smartly and moves the 
box of World -Famed Twopenny Cheroots, 

" Something you said, Mrs. Ingram," he 
began, " has been worryin* of me, and I've 
called round tu talk it over. You seem to 
have got the impression in your mind that 

" One topic at a time," urged Mr, Ardwick. 
" My idea of benevolence is something wider 
and broader than that of most people/' He 
glanced at the clock. l( What I propose to 
do is this. To the first customer that enters 
this shop after half-past three I shall present 
the sum of five pound." 

( < Five what ? " 

" Five quid^^Sj^jfi, in a resolute sort of 




manner. " The first one, mind you, after 
half-past three. It wants two minutes to 
the half-hour now. All you've got to do, 
ma'am, is to stand where you are, and to 
judge whether I'm a man of a generous 
disposition or whether I'm the opposite/' 

As the clock turned the half -hour an old 
woman came in and 
put down four far- 
things for snuff ; when 
she had gone Mr, Ard- 
wick mentioned that 
he knew for a fact 
that the clock was a 
trifle fast. An elderly 
gentleman in work- 
house clothes came 
for a screw r of tobacco ; 
Mr, Ardwick pointed 
out to Mrs, Ingram 
that he never proposed 
to extend his offer to 
those supported by 
the State, Kimball 
arrived at twenty- five 
minutes to, and Mr. 
Ardwick glared at 
him privately for not 
keeping the appoint- 
ment, Kihriba 11 bought 
a box of wooden 
matches, and was 
leaving the shop when 
Mr. Ardwick called 

Mr. Ardwick was talking across the counter 
to Mrs. Ingram about the pleasures of 
exercising charity, and the duty of those 
who possessed riches towards them who had 
none, when a most horrible idea seemed to 
occur to him, and he darted out of the shop 
[ike a streak of lightning. In Kingsland 




said, u your face and 
your general appear- 
ance suggest that you 
are not one of those 
w f ho are termed 
favourites of fortune, 
Tell me, now, have 
you ever been the 
recipient f so to speak , 
of a stroke of luck ? " 

" Not to my know- 
ledge, sir/ 1 said Kim- 
ball, answering very 

" Never had a windfall of any kind ? No 
sudden descent of manna from above ? Very 
well, then." Mr, Ardwick took out his cheque- 
book and asked Mrs. L for pen and ink* " He 
so kind as to give me your full name, and it 
will be my pleasure to hand you over a hand- 
some gift. I hope you will lay out the sum to 
the best advantage, and I trust it may prove 
a turning-point j as it were, in your bfe I" 

— Digitized by Google 

Road he just caught a motor-omnibus that 
was going towards the City., and on the way 
through Shoreditch he complained, whilst he 
mopped his forehead, because the conductor 
did not make the bus go quicker. Near 
Cornhill there was a block of trafficj and he 
slipped down and ran for his life. As he 
came near the Bank he caught sight of Kimball 
descending the steps. Atr. Ardwick threw 




himself, exhausted, across a dustbin on the 
edge of the pavement and burst into tears. 

He mentioned to me afterwards that it was 
not so much the loss of the money that 
affected him as the knowledge that a fellow- 
man had broke his word. That was what 
upset Mr. Ardwick. He tried to explain all 
this at the time to a City constable. 

" You get away home/' advised the City 
constable, " and try to sleep it off. That's 
your best plan. Unless you want me to 
take you down to Cloak Lane for the 

Mr. Ardwick felt very much hurt at this 
insinuation on his character, because, partly 
on account of his principles and partly because 
he hated giving money away, he was a strict 
teetotal ; but the remark furnished him with 
an idea, and he acted on it without a moment's 
delay. He returned to Dalston Junction, and 
there, by great good luck, he found Kimball 
—Kimball smoking a big cigar and trying to 
persuade a railway-porter to accept one. Mr. 
Ardwick went up to him and took the 

" I congratulate you 'eartily," he said, 
slapping Kimball on the shoulder in a cheerful 
sort of way. " There isn't many that could 
brag of having done Samuel Ardwick in the 
eye, but I always admit it when I come 
across my superior. There's only one favour 
I want you to grant." 

" You gave me the cheque, and I've got a 
perfect right to it. What we may have 
agreed upon beforehand has got nothing 
whatever to do with the matter." 

" All I ask you to do," went on Mr. Ardwick, 
" is to allow me to celebrate the occasion by 
inviting you to have a little snack at a restau- 
rant close by. A meal, I mean. A proper 
dinner. Food, and a bottle of something 
with it." 

" This don't sound like you," remarked 

" I sha'n't make the offer twice," said Mr. 

Kimball strolled along with him rather 
reluctantly and somewhat suspiciously up 
Stoke Newington Road. Mr. Ardwick stopped 
outside an Italian eating-place, had a good 
look at the prices of everything in a brass 
frame near the doorway, gave a deep sigh, 
and led the way in. 

It was here that, in my opinion, Mr. A. 
made a blunder ; he admitted himself to me 
afterwards that he was not acquainted with 
the quality of the wine or the capacity of his 
friend Kimball. The foreign waiter, being 
told confidentially that price was an object, 

recommended a quarter-bottle of what he 
called Vin Ordinaire at sevenpence. It was 
only when Kimball was starting on the 
fourth of these that Mr. Ardwick discovered 
he could have sent out for a full bottle at 
the cost of one-and-nine. He himself took 
no food and no beverage of any description, 
but just sat back, smoking the cigar, totting 
up the expenses, and keeping a watchful eye 
on his guest. 

" Is it a fruity wine ? " asked Mr. Ardwick, 
when the last quarter-bottle was opened. 

Kimball lifted up his glass. " I shouldn't 
like to say there was much of that about it," 
he answered. " As a matter of fact, it doesn't 
taste of anything." 

" But surely it goes to your head ! " 

" It goes to my head," agreed Kimball, 
11 because I put it there ; but it don't seem 
to have any effect on the brain. Sheer waste 
of my time, so far as I can gather." 

" Look here ! " said Mr. Ardwick, with a 
determined effort. " I want to have a quiet 
little talk with you. I've stood this very 
excellent meal, and it's pnly right you should 
do something for me intyretura." 

" Anything within reason." 

" I'm not the man to ask you to do anything 
else. You've had your little joke at my ex- 
pense, and now my suggestion is that you 
hand across the five pounds, and we'll both 
have a good laugh over the transaction. I 
admit you played your part uncommonly 
well. You ran it rather close, and if you'd 
been a minute or so later, my lad, you'd 
have found the bank closed, and then I 
could have stopped payment." 

" I got there," said Kimball, " at one 
minute past four, and the doors were shut ! " 

Mr. Ardwick settled up, and told Kimball 
exactly what "he thought of him. 

" Imposing on generosity," he said, heatedly 
— " that's your game ! " 

He went off home to write a letter to the 
bank, and to recognize that matters had, 
after all, turned out better than he might 
have expected. In the evening he made his 
usual call here, dressed up special, and 
evidently anxious to find out what sort of an 
effect his display of benevolence had made 
on Mrs. I. 

" I can't help seeing," she said, confiden- 
tially, taking the evening paper from another 
customer and handing it to Mr. Ardwick, 
" that I've, all along, done you an injustice. 
I liked your conversation, and I had no 
fault to find with your general behaviour ; 
but I somehow had an idea that you rather 
over-did the CwOiicmb^U" 




" If I come across a really deserving case/' 
remarked Mr* Ardwick, modestly, " I'm pre* 
pared to give away my last penny. I don't 
say I scatter my money broadcast, but when 
1 do give 1 give liberally and with both 

41 I was telling the poor man," said Mrs, 
Ingram, M that he ought to feel very much 
indebted to you. You've stood him on his 

father anxiously, " but when did you say all 
this to him ? " 

14 About a hour or so ago," she replied, 
" when he came in and asked me to change 
the cheque for him. Knowing all the cir- 
cumstances, of course I didn't hesitate a 
single moment ! " 

I was doing a bit of debt-collecting at the 

feet, so to speak, and, whatever it may lead 
to, he's only got you to thank." 

" Don't make too much of a mere 

" I advised him to put half of it away in 
the Post Office, and use the other half to 
rig himself out in a new- suit and look respect- 

" Excuse me," interrupted Mr, Ardwick, 

time } said the proprietor of the tobacconist's 
shop, and that was how I became acquainted 
with Mrs, Ingram, She was grateful over 
my succes|- w T ith what was undoubtedly a 
tough job, and one word led to another, and 
eventually I consented to propose to her. 
She'll be down directly. Wait and have a 
glance at her, and tell me if you think I 
acted wisely. 

by Google 

Original from 

The Bride of To-Day, 

How Wedding Customs Have CkangecL 

HERE can be no doubt that 
weddings are among the most 
popular functions in society. 
But they, like all else, are 
subject to the law of evolu- 
tion. As the years 

pass changes creep 
in which mark the difference be- 
tween modern manners and time- 
worn traditions, And these are 
shown in various ways — in the 
bridal gown and bouquet, in the 
bridesmaids* dresses, in the wed- 
ding ceremony, in the going - 
away of bride and bridegroom — 
even in the length of their honey- 

Bridal white is an old custom 
that dates from the Dark Ages. 
A girl -bride has worn white on 
her wedding day as a sign of 
maiden innocence. But 
we have changed all that; 
and a modern bride, 
although pure as snow, 
often chooses a get-up 
which could easily be 
worn by a widow. 
Touches of colour are 
freely used^ and white 
and gold brocade seems 
to be the favour- 
ite material. 
Praise to the 
pioneer : Lady 
Helen Vincent's 
name must be 
mentioned in this 
connection. At 
her wedding in 
1890 she appeared 
a fair and lovely 
bride, her white 
umvn adorned 
with a pale green 
sash and pale 
green embroi- 
deries* And the 
present-day Mrs* 
Gilliat, when she 

married the late Lord Anglesey— then Lord 
Uxbridge — in 1898, had a white satin dress 
trimmed with touches of pale green which 
accorded well with her beautiful emeralds. 
And more recent brides have followed in their 
footsteps. Lady Mar- 
garet Macrae, only sister 
to Lord Bute, wore a 
gown of white and gold 
brocade at her Scotch 
wedding in 1909. 

The fancy for this 
rich stuff is on the in* 
crease, as there have 
been several instances 
of brides so garbed in 
i^ioand 1911. In 1910 
an American bride, Vis- 
countess Maidstone, 
born Miss Margaretta 
Drexcl, had a gold bro- 
cade train to her wed- 
ding-gown, and made a 
picture of fairy 'like 
loveliness. And Mrs. 
Ralph Pcto, once the 
beautiful Miss Ruby 
Lindsay, also wore white 
and gold brocade on 
the occasion 
of her mar- 
riage. As re- 
gards last 
year, there 
can be no 
doubt that 

the most 

by GGOgl£ 

/■VtfM a /taloffJ-JCfA jy Alfred ^tnif; t <jrrAftl&aiit» 




the most wonderful wedding-gown was worn 
by Lady Violet Charteris, nit Lady Violet 
Manners^ a daughter of the Duke and Duchess 
of Rutland. This was in soft, white silk covered 
with old lace, and had a long court train of 
white and gold brocade, in each corner of 
which were embroidered the arms of the 
Wemyss and Rutland families — a swan of 
the house of Wemyss and a peacock of the 
house of Rutland. The Hon. Mrs. Cyril 
Ponsonby wore white and gold brocade 
at her wedding in July ; and one of the most 
recent examples of a bridal gown made in 
this rich stuff was that of the Hon, Lady 
Bailey at her wedding 
in September. .__ - 

A marked change 
can also be seen in 
our bridal bouquets. 
In old days white 
blooms were indis- 
pensable, and the 
flowers chosen were 
usually white roses, 
white lilies j orchids, 
or carnations. But in 
recent years several 
brides have had bou- 
quets of coloured blos- 
soms. Lady Loch was, 
we believe, the pioneer 
in this direction. She 
carried a bouquet of 
red roses at her wed- 
ding in 1905 ; and a 
handful of white and 
yelluw orchids were 
the flowers chosen by 
Mrs* Malcolm j once 
Miss Claire Stopford, 
a daughter of Wini- 
fred Countess of 
Arran, by her first 

marriage. In 191 1 Lady Lettice Harrison, 
only daughter of the Marquess and Mar- 
chioness of Cholmondeley, carried at her wed- 
ding a big bouquet of pink carnations. But 
bouquets are sometimes banished, A year 
or two ago Mrs. Raymond Asquith carried 
on her arm three or four long boughs of orange- 
blossom ; and a few brides adopt the American 
mode of an ivory prayer -book instead of a 
bouquet — a plan which many think lacks 
the grace of imagination. 

Another change of style may be seen in the 
bridal wreath and hair decoration. Orange- 
blossoms were once a necessity, but now 
many brides choose another flower or else 
wear a wreath of leaves or of some kind of 


*Wrt ft I'huUtfjrafth t.y RvU\ Martin. 


foliage. Myrtle ? the bridal bloom of Germany^ 
seems to be a special favourite, This has 
been worn by several important brides ; 
among others, by Countess Gleichen, bom 
the Hon. Sylvia Edwardes, once a Maid of 
Honour , and whose marriage took place at 
the Chapel Royal, St. James's, in July, 
1910. The Hon. Mrs, Frederick Guest, an 
American bride 7 had on her head a wreath 
of white roses ; Lady Norman, wife of Sir 
Henry Norman , wore a wreath of gardenias ; 
and Lady Edith J Shee ? formerly Lady Edith 
King-Tenison, had a wreath of white heather, 
which was sent from her home, Kilronan 

Castle, County Ros- 
common. Then the 
Hon. Mrs. Robert 
Gr os ven or, another 
American bride, had 
a circlet of laurel 
leaves ; and the Hon. 
Mrs. Charles Murray, 
a young widow, wore 
a wreath of leaves 
with a long lace man- 
tilla. A few brides 
dispense with a wreath 
altogether, Lady 
Brooke j wife of Lord 
Brooke, and daughter 
of Sir William and 
Lady Eden, had no 
bridal wreath, but 
wore in her hair a 
silver fillet. And Vis- 
countess Achcson, an 
American bride , had 
a cap of old lace under 
her white tulle veil, 
with over each car a 
small spray of orange- 
blossom. She was a 
picture-bride of 191 o, 
Wedding veils are either bf lace, tulle, or 
chiffon, and of these the two latter arc the 
most becoming. But a few brides are the 
happy wearers of historic lace veils which 
have been in their families for general ions, 
A veil that will be an heirloom was that worn 
by Theresa Countess of Shrewsbury in 1855, 
and has since been used by her three daughters, 
Muriel Viscountess Helmsley, Latfy Guendolen 
Little, and the Marchioness of Londonderry ; 
and in more recent days by her grandchildren, 
the Hon. Mrs. Gcrvase Beckett and the 
Countess of Uchester, Then the Jersey 
earldom owns a precious lace veil which 
covered the head of the famous Sarah 
Countess of Jersey in .1804, and which was 
Original from 




From a t'Aotvpmt* &*J * PK IMAVERA ^ (SPRINGTIME), 11 ITopfcmJ. 

worn by the reigning Countess in 1872, by her 
three daughters, the Countess of Longford, 
Lady Dynevor, and Lady Dunsany ; and in 
1908 by her pretty daughter-in-law. Vis- 
countess Villiers. The Pembroke family own 
a veil of priceless lace which was worn by 
the present Countess of Pembroke, and by 
her daughter-in-law, Lady Herbert, in 1904. 
The Marchioness of Bute wore a bridal veil 
which had been used by her mother, and was 
given to her grandmother, a Countess of 
Gainsborough, by Queen Adelaide* The Hon. 
Mrs, Dyson- Laurie, born the Hon. Gwen 
Molesworth, wore a wedding veil which hat J 
been used by a Viscountess Molesworth as 
long ago as the year 1735. Veils such as 
these are worn with pride by their present 

The question of " to be or not to be " on 
the subject of jewels worn by brides at their 
weddings seems to come up with much per- 
sistence. Women of the best taste prefer 
pearls, and wear a pearl necklace and some- 
times a pair of pearl earrings. And this in 
spite of the fact that pearls are reckoned as 
unlucky by those of us who deal in super- 
stitions. A diamond necklace, often given 
by the bridegroom, is worn by a few brides, 
and rubies and emeralds have been the 
choice of more than one well-known rnariie. 
Lady Aline Vivian, sister to the Earl of 

Portarljngton, braved fate and wore opals on 
the day of her marriage ; but she was safe, 
as she had been born in October. There 
seems now to be a dead set against a bride 
wearing a diamond tiara ; a jewelled crown 
is perhaps thought too garish an ornament to 
wear at so solemn a ceremony. But even 
now some of us can remember the high 
tiara of turquoises and diamonds wom by 
Princess Pless, a fairy-tale bride of 1891, 

Brides who are called Rose, May, Myrtle, 
Daisy, Lily, Ivy, or Violet usually represent 
their names by the bouquets they carry or 
by the way in which their gowns are em- 
broidered, and .sometimes their nationality is 
shown in the same manner. 

Bridesmaids have moved with the times in 
a marked degreee. In days of old brides- 
maids' frocks were dull in design and faulty 
in execution. Then the so-calied u picture Jp 
hat held its own, and the changes were rung 
on straw in summer and felt in winter. But 
as taste advanced we learnt to think for 
ourselves and to dress in a more artistic 
fashion. Of late the pretty, old-world style 
has been revived of bridesmaids wearing 
frocks of pure white, with white tulle veils, 
and on their heads a wreath of flowers ; while 
in other cases they often have a small cap 
or some such dainty contrivance. For 
instance, tKSriIJi*rel Mrs. Sandars (once the 




Hon. Maud Graves) let her bridesmaids wear 
big Alsatian bows of soft mauve silk as head- 
gear. . 

Brides who belong to the artistic set 
think out some charming creations. Lady 
Violet Charter is 5 s bridesmaids' dresses were 
copies of robes in Botticelli's picture, " Prima- 
vera " (Springtime). They were in cream 
crepe dt Chine, embroidered with many- 
shaded flowers in pink, green , red, blue, and 
yellow ; and the gowns had underskirts of 
red velvet, the bridesmaids wearing on their 
heads cream tulle caps, trimmed over 
the ears with red roses. Lady Worsley's 
bridesmaids looked notably well with their 
Charles I, gowns and mob caps made of gold 
lace and oxidized silver^ and with small 
bows of black ribbon velvet as a trimming. 

Of late yet another American fashion 
has been seen at smart weddings in London. 
This is the introduction of *' matrons of 
honour/ 1 which means that three or four 
smart young married women appear among 
the bride's attendants, At a wedding at 
St. Paul's, Knightsbridge, there were four 
" matrons of honour," chosen from among the 
married sisters of the bride and bridegroom. 
Three bridesmaids^ dressed in white, walked 
first, and were followed by the matrons, who 
wore rose velvet frocks and cream lace 
" granny ,f caps and big cream lace muffs, 
each trimmed with rose ribbons. The effect 
was perfect. 

But the greatest innovation of all is the 
return of the groomsmen. During the last 
year or two they have been seen at several 


/Vujji a Phvtt*\rriTfh bjf) 


[i-*Htrai Ann. 

Lady Bute's bridesmaids were dressed as 
Irish peasants at her wedding in 1905. 
Recent brides have increased the number of 
their attendants. In these days there are 
often a round dozen of bridesmaids, and 
Lad>- Dorothy D'Oyley Carte had eight 
bridesmaids and six pages— fourteen small 

Another novelty is for the bridesmaids to 
precede instead of follow the bride up tin 
church on her way to the altar. In America 
this style seems almost universal. Sometimes 
the first bridesmaid is escorted by the best 
man ; the rest follow in procession, and, last 
of all. comes the bride, whose train may 
perhaps be carried by two small girls or a 
couple of pages, 

gilized by CiOOgLC 

marriages, and brides, bridegrooms, and 
bridesmaids (especially the latter) wonder 
why they ever went out of favour. They are 
always useful, and certainly add lo the spec- 
tacular effect of the ceremony. At the above- 
mentioned weddings the old custom was 
revived of six groomsmen, who accompanied 
the six bridesmaids as they followed the bride 
to the altar. The fact that to-day we use 
the term " best man " is evidence of this 
old-time fashion, " Best man " really means 
the best groomsman, just as we now speak of 
a first bridesmaid. 

The " going away " of the happy pair is 
also done with a difference. Motors have 
now taken the place of broughams or vic- 
torias, andrvffwjii^jpn^ir has sometimes 




sealed orders, so that no one is aware of the 
arranged destination. But this is a trifle 
prosaic as compared with the splendid send- 
off that was given to some ultra smart brides 
and bridegrooms even within recent memories. 
Prince and Princess Miinster, then Count and 
Countess Alexander Munster, drove away for 
their honeymoon in an open carriage with 
four horses and postilions ; and so did the 
late Earl of Airlie and his bride, the Countess 
of Airlie ; and also Sir Godfrey and Lady 
Baring for their sixteen-mile journey to Esher 
Place, Sir Edgar and Lady Helen Vincent's 
country house in Surrey. 

In recent years several startling novel- 
ties have been seen at country weddings. 
At one of these the bride and bride- 
groom drove away on a four - in - hand 
coach, while the bride handled the ribbons. 
At a Devonshire wedding the bride, who 
was of sporting tastes, was escorted to 
the church by the Devon and Somerset 
Staghounds, and on her return with her 
newly-wed husband was accompanied by 
the Taunton Vale Foxhounds. At another 
Devonshire wedding the bride was followed 
to the altar by her favourite white bulldog, 
which was decorated with white favours 
for the occasion. And another bride, 
in Sussex, made her wedding journey in a 
carriage drawn by six white-rosetted gun- 
horses driven by an artilleryman in full 
. uniform. London, however, does not lend 
itself to these eccentricities. 

The simplicity or splendour of a wedding, 
of course, depends on the purse and pro- 
clivities of those to be married. But the 
smartness of society marriages is no doubt 
on the increase ; presents become more 
numerous and of far greater value, and the 
toilettes worn by bride, bridesmaids, and 
wedding guests are often of great beauty and 
splendour. Trousseaux, on the other hand, 
seem to diminish in bulk, if not in price, and 
for the sijnple reason that a gown made in 
March is out of date in May, and a hat that 
looks perfect in April becomes dowdy and 
dimodt in July. So the actual number of 
articles has been greatly reduced during 
the last decade, and the vast sums spent go 
in quality and in elaborate hand-work to 
meet the claims of London and Paris dress- 
makers. Many a modern bride goes off on 
her honeymoon with a small outfit that would 
have astonished her mother and grand- 
mother ; and this quite irrespective of her 
wealth or social position. For instance, 
such a notable bride as Lady Burton, now a 

peeress in her own right, and then the Hon. 
Nellie Bass, only child of the late Lord 
Burton, had what in old days would have 
been thought a restricted trousseau. Her 
jewels were splendid, but the number of 
gowns, cloaks, hats, etc., were kept down to , 
a reasonable number. 

Of late the trousseau of London society 
has taken a hint from the corbeille of 
the Continent. Lace, fur, costly stuffs, and 
materials, such as silks, velvets, etc., are 
included in the bride's outfit ; and also dainty 
devices in ribbon-work, with many sorts of 
hand-made embroideries. Rich fabrics are 
brought from abroad by her friends and 
admirers, among which may often be found 
lengths of crepe de Chine, and soft silks, 
satins, and brocades from India, China, and 
Japan. There are also many other treasures, 
such as dressing-boxes with antique fittings, 
jewel-cases that have a history, curious 
clasps and buckles, quaint combs, gold purses 
and bags, richly-bound books, exquisite bric- 
a-brac for the toilet-table, and — perhaps best 
of all— some fine pieces of old furniture. 
Trousseaux are comprehensive in 191 2. 

Recent years have seen some notable 
trousseaux, which included fine furs, exquisite 
lingerie, and many gowns of great beauty and 
value. Among these were the wedding outfits 
of the Marchioness of Crewe, once Lady Peggy 
Primrose ; the Marchioness of Graham, born 
Lady Mary Hamilton ; the Countess of Car- 
narvon, formerly Miss Almina Wombwell ; 
the Countess of Ilchester, nie Lady Helen 
Stewart ; Viscountess Castlereagh, daughter 
of Mr. Henry Chaplin ; and Mrs. Lewis 
Harcourt, who was Miss Mary Burns, of 
New York. A pleasing feature of these 
trousseaux was the way in which home indus 
tries were benefited and encouraged. Each 
bride ordered Irish and Scotch products- 
lace, poplin, tweeds, serges, and home- 

A contrast to such splendid outfits was 
that of the lady who married Mr. Whistler. 
The story goes that Mr. Labouchere met her 
two days before the wedding. " I see you 
are in a hurry/' said he ; " you must have a 
lot to do, getting your trousseau and so on ? " 
" I am just getting my trousseau," she 
admitted, " but it won't take long. All I 
want is a new tooth-brush and a new comb ! " 
This remark proves that there are different 
standards even in the matter of trousseaux. 
But the modern bride does well to spend, as 
by this means she employs labour and benefits 
the trade of the community. 

Vol jciiiu-ta 

by K: 



■_i 1 1 1 ti 1 1 1 ■_■ 1 1 1 




Illustrations by Steven Spurrier. 

RINK up ! You're not half 
doing your share." Patterson 
filled up his guest's glass 
to the brim. " Have some 
galantine ? Help yourself — 
that's better. Butter? Here 
you are. Got everything? 
Let me see ; you were saying something. 
Oh, yes ; I remember. Yes— it is a jolly old 
house. Got its history, too, like most of 
them ! " 

Ronald Wingate, with his mouth full, 
could not, at that moment, manage to say 
■more. He swallowed his bread hastily ; was 
about to ask for details ; his lips were parting 
in the very act of speech. 

«Wha ?" 

The question ended on that half spoken 
word. There was a noise like the noise of 
ten cart-whips cracked at a word of command ; 
then a bang ; the sound of wood falling on a 
roof of glass, which is like no other sound in 
the world ; then the crash of glass falling — 
falling on to flower-pot and concrete ; and 
a wind-sough like a wounded giant's sigh. 
The curtain at the foot of the spiral staircase 
was lifted a foot from the floor ; it swung 
heavily inwards, then dropped, the bottom of 
it finding the bottommost stair. In the 
silver branching candelabra candles guttered 
and smoked. Ronald Wingate found himself 
half standing, half sitting in his pushed-back 
castored chair. 

" Good heavens ! I say — what's happened ? 
That noise — what was it ? " 

He stopped ; pulled up shamefacedly, 
made quiet by Patterson's calm. The nerves 
of an ex-amateur heavy-weight champion, 
who plays golf on Mondays, Wednesdays, 
and Saturdays, and rides before breakfast 
seven days a week, are not the nerves of an 
overworked, overstrung young solicitor who 
lives alone, and who has the education of 
four young sis.ers on his hands. 

"It's all right — it's only a branch that's 
fallen on to the conservatory ; if this wind lasts 
there'll be more damage than that. Beastly 
nuisance, but there's no helping it — the 
glass-houses shouldn't be in so stupid a place. 
Gad! hark at that!" 

There was a wail like the cry of a fallen 
angel ; the wind lifted the bottom of that 
curtain from the bottommost stair to the 
floor again; once more, in that ancient 
hall which the Pattersons made their dining- 
room, the candles guttered and smoked. 

" No wonder there was no cab at the station 
— it would have been bowled across the heath 
into one of those disused quarries in no 
time ; we were nearly blown away as it was. 
Don't let the wind bustle you — this is a barn 
of a house, you know. Get on with your 
supper. Have some more to drink?" 

"Thanks," said Ronald Wingate. "Thank 
you; I will." 

It was all that he could blurt out He 
was ashamed ; ashamed and miserable with 
the shame and misery of a self-conscious 
person who knows his shortcomings too well. 
And he began to eat, hastily, ravenously, to 
hide what he knew that he showed. Patter- 
son, eating leisurely, watched the long, thin, 
nervous face. He was out of sympathy with 
Ronald ; he didn't understand him and 
didn't much want to ; he was annoyed with 
him ; he felt an evergrowing contempt. Yet 
because of his wife's asking he had been 
generous enough to his guest. 

"Be good to Ronnie Wingate, Harry," 
Mrs. Patterson had written from Zurich. " Be 
good to him and take him to some theatres 
and ask him down for week-ends, and give 
him lots to eat. He's had a dreadful time 
of it ; and he's got to keep all those sisters, 
and his partner's a perfect beast. Besides, 
I'm sure you'll like him once you get to 
know him ; and though, of course, he is 
horribly self-conscious he'll soon get over it, 
and it all comes from living alone." While 
to that long and affectionate letter, such a 
one as any man might be glad to get from 
the wife of his bosom, the last, and fifth, 
postscript was this : — 

" Remember ; he good to Ronnie Wingate 
and give him lots to eat" 

But giving people lots to eat is not every- 
thing, which Patterson, somehow, didn't 
always see. 

He had dined Ronald handsomely at the 
Trocadero ; then had taken him to the 




Empire ; they had come home by the last 
train ; had walked up from Biackheath 
Station ; and they sat now in the long, many- 
doored, draughty, rug-covered hall of that 
early-Georgian house. The table was large, 
beautiful, gate-legged, and inconvenient ; the 
chairs were comfortable, high-backed. Against 
the far wall stood an ancient dresser, huge and 
pewter - stacked ; against other walls glass- 
fronted cupboards, crammed with decanter 
and dish. On the mantelpiece candlesticks 
innumerable; big, middle-sized, tiny; brass, 
every one of them ; and brazen ornaments 
besides. On the hearth, which glowed 
warmly, fire-dogs and nail-studded bellows; 
under a window a narrow refectory table, 
shining and smooth-faced. At that end of 
the room from which no door opened a stair- 
case, spiral, steepish, before which hung that 
wind-stirred curtain, where a sentinel goddess 
of plaster hdd high aloft a lamp. Over all 
the doors, and over the shuttered windows, 
curtains ba4ji soft and thick. On the table, a 
feast after the heart of the giver : a supper 
cold, delicious, savouring of Soho. Oysters 
had been there and anchovies; olives, tongues, 
and jellies ; long rolls of bread — by the crusty, 
Gallic yard — and butter in round flat pats. 
With wine— white wine — to crown it : a meal 
Bohemian and rare. 

And Ronald Wingate wasn't enjoying him- 
sell ; Patterson saw it and was wrath. The 
fellow ate — but without appreciation. He was 
nervous, horribly nervous ; his face showed it ; 
his hands, his lips betrayed. He had small 
tricks, curious affectations; he twitched his 
throat at intervals, threw up his chin perpetu- 
ally, never seeming quite at ease. Patterson, 
who had not done a day's work since he left 
Oxford, highly disapproved. 

11 Fellow^ a funk ; a born funk," he told 
himself. "A blooming, beastly funk. He's 
no earthly right to go jumping about at a 
little bit of noise. Hang it all, he deserves 
frightening ! - Jove, I will frighten him ! — and 
then I'll slang him for being afraid." So— 
he had been one of those boys who bully not 
from viciousness but from lack of imagination 
— he began to play upon Ronald Wingate's 
nervousness on the homoeopathic plan. 

" Yes, we were talking about the house," 
he began, carelessly. " It is a rum old place 
— though the Saxon part of it is altogether 
gone. Wat Tyler — he's buried in that clump 
of trees we passed just outside the garden ; 
got into it, and pretty well razed it 
down. Then, afterwards, Sir Thomas More 
lived here— he and Erasmus used to walk in 
the garden — and Raleigh had it for a little 

while ; and later on it was bought by a clock- 
maker to one of the Georges— and he had it 
rebuilt. Those rooms there " — Patterson 
pointed over Ronald Wingate's shoulder — 
" those rooms — through the door, at the back 
of you — they've all got special-shaped windows 
where the beggars used to work. And then" 
— though Patterson was no actor the night, 
the wind, his lowered voice gave the atmo- 
sphere he wanted for his words — "and then 
—it's a nasty story— there was the murder ! " 

"The murder!" 

" Yes —oh, yes, it's famous— quite." (Patter- 
son, bully but well-meaning, rejoiced at 
Ronald's start.) "It was a sort of— Gad! how 
that wind howls ! — a sort of — what's the play? 
Oh, I know — Paolo and Francesca — same 
kind of thing without the men being brothers. 
You see, the watchmaker " 

Patterson paused deliberately, as he had 
heard boys pause when telling ghost stories 
at school. And again the wind soughed and 
the curtain lifted, and the candles in that 
Briairean candelabra guttered and smoked 
and flamed. 

"The watchmaker," began Ronald Win- 
gate, with easy uneasiness— the gust had by 
then outblown itself — " the watchmaker — 
did he ?" 

"Of course he did. He'd a pretty wife 
and a young foreman, and one afternoon he 
came home from London— either by design 
or accident— and found them with their arms 
round each other's waists " 

"And he— killed them?" 

" Killed them ? Of course he did. Mr. 
Watchmaker— it couldn't very well have been 
by accident that he came home from London 
— shoots the pair of them dead, and cuts his 
own throat. No one would take the place 
for years afterwards; but at last things got 
forgotten and would have stayed forgotten 
if my uncle hadn't ferreted it out" 

" Your uncle ? " The voice, as it echoed 
Patterson's, had in it a curious timbre ; a 
crushed-back yet still perceptible thrill of 
discomfort and fear. "Your uncle— did he 
live here ? " 

" Lord, yes. Loved it. Never went out- 
side the garden for the last ten years of his 
life. Spent his time cataloguing his china 
and reconstructing the crime. I've got his 
monograph somewhere. Lend it you to read 
in bed, if >ou like." 

"Thank you— thank you very much." 
Ronald Wingate, like all men, was afraid of 
seeming afraid. But again his voice thrilled 
with that crushed-back, perceptible fear. 

Patterson hid the smile that would widen, 



and crossed to a bureau by the wall. The wind 
wailed again ; once more the curtain swung. 
Ronald Wingate glanced over his shoulder 
nervously— and met Patterson's eyes. 

" Here you are— makes good reading. My 
uncle didn't spare iny pains." 

Ronald Wingate took the brochure and read 
the title aloud : — 

"'The Crime at Wat Tyler's House: as 
reconstructed by Joshua Patterson (with map 
and diagrams)" 

And Patterson, standing beside the reader, 
saw mouth and lip a-twitch. The devil 
entered into him as he watched. 

11 Old boy spent six months solid on it — 
and then wasn't satisfied. Couldn't ever 
make up his mind about the room." 

" The room ? Oh — er — yes — you mean 
the room where — where the watch- 
maker ? " 

" That's it. I don't think my uncle ever 
did feel satisfied about it— even to the last. 
I always said it was in the drawing-room." 

Patterson paused. 

"Yes," said Ronald Wingate, nervously. 
" Yes." 

Patterson waited a moment ; then he 
looked hard at his guest. 

" You aren't nervous ? " he asked, with a 
sneer which he just couldn't keep back. 

Ronald Wingate paused in turn. He 
knew, instinctively, what was coming now. 

" Er— not— er — not particularly. Why ? " 

Patterson sat there smiling ; saw — a child 
could have seen it— that Ronald Wingate 
was more than nervous ; that he was being 
worked up to a state of real fear. But 
since, as he believed, he bullied Ronald 
Wingate for Ronald Wingate's good, he did 
not cease— but enlarged. 

" It's rum," he went on— his own feeling 
of robust superiority increasing at each word 
— " but my uncle, finally, hit upon the room 
by the drawing-room— a sort of boudoir — as 
the spot where the killing was done. But, of 
course, it's a boudoir no longer— the drawing- 
room's large enough for anything— and so 
we've made it into a bedder ; and it's there 
that the maids have put you for to-night. If 
you see any visions "—Patterson laughed — 
"well, sing out, and I'll come running 
along. I'm just above you— on the next 

" Right," said Rona d Wingate. " If I see 
the watchmaker, I'll shout." 

His voice— that outward and visible sign 
of an inward and increasing misery — rang 
tell-tale upon Patterson's ears. Then — 
because, though kind and generous-hearted, 

he was utterly without sympathy and under- 
standing — Patterson did not cease, even now. 
He kept up the attack ; sought to throw 
Ronald Wingate into such a sea of terror 
that, struggling there, his guest should lose 
fear and swim, courageous, to the shore. 

" It won't be the watchmaker only," he 
went on. " It'll be the deaders, too. And, 
by Jove " — he broke off and laughed boister- 
ously — "you may even see a burglar as well." 

"A burglar!" 

" Yes ; why not? This lonely old house is 
the very place for them— goodness knows I've 
had warnings enough. And now that I'm 
selling the china there's all the more chance 
they should come." 

Ronald Wingate stared; felt more than 
ever uneasy ; yet failed to understand. 

" Your china — selling it — why should that 
want to make them come ? " 

" Because " — Patterson, now thoroughly 
enjoying himself, held Ronald's eyes with his 
own — "because it'll go to the nation— or to 
someone who'll keep it in a safer place. 
Christie's people are fetching it on Monday 
—and to-night and to-morrow night are the 
only chances left. My uncle gave eleven 
thousand five hundred for it — it's worth 
twice that now. And it would be worth a 
chap's while to collar some of it and get it 
off to America even at the risk of a scrap. 
You might, Wingate " — Patterson spoke with 
pretended reflection — "you might be in for 
a busy night." 

" B-but how should they know about it ? 
W-why s-should anyone choose one of these 
two nights ? " 

" ISecause " — Patterson spoke slowly — 
" because of the papers ; they've all had news 
of the sale. The Telegraph gave it half a 
column ; and not one of them but has 
paragraphed it since. No " — Patterson's 
voice sounded positively hopeful— "now or 
never for Mr. Burglar while the stuffs in this 
lonely old house." 

There was a long silence. Ronald Wingate 
the jaded looked at Patterson the fit ; felt, in 
the actual atmosphere, the big man's hostility 
and contempt. 

"Finished?" asked Patterson, suddenly. 
"Anything more to eat?" 

"N-no, thanks. I've d-done excellently." 

" Very well, then, we'll turn in. But I'll 
show you the china first." And Patterson, 
feeling that it was like walking a nervous 
horse up to some straw or sacking at which 
he had shied, grinned to himself and led the 
way upstairs. Ronald Wingate followed. 
They came Jo the ffetfi floor. Patterson 





opened a door, went in, touched the 
switches, and the room blazed into light. 

The room was wide and oblong, furnished 
(Mrs. Patterson was tasteful) in keeping with 
the Adam mantelpiece ; not overpictured nor 

crowded in any way- One side of it, almost, 
was French windows ; they gave upon a 
balcony, opposite which was the room's one 
door — the door by which Ronald Wingate 
and Patter sou had come in. To the It ft, 




against the far wall, was a row of glass- 
panelled, sliding-doored cupboards on high 
and strutted frames. Patterson touched 
other switches ; the china flashed into relief. 

Patterson slid back a panel, took out piece 
after piece, and showed Ronald Wingate the 
ancient crescent-markings ; crescents with E 
in their centre or a man's face framed in a 
yet young moon ; squares containing crosses 
with crescents on their top, like squares 
with ball cornerings ; Chinese hieroglyphs ; 
crossed swords ; an anchor ; feathers ; a 
crown. As he replaced the last vase the 
wind came swirling round veranda and 
cornice, shook shutters and rattled the glass. 
Patterson, who had been thinking of the 
china and the china's value, remembered why 
he was there. 

"Worth burgling— what?" he said, and 
swung upon his guest as he spoke. 

" Worth "— Ronald Wingate forced him- 
self to think of the china, not of the hinted 
crime — " worth — what did you say ? Eleven 
thousand odd ? " 

"That's what my uncle gave for it. It's 
worth twice that now ; some of the pieces are 
absolutely unique. But I shall know more 
in the morning. A man I know at Eltham — 
South Kensington expert — is coming round 
at terr. He'll run through the lot of it — 
if it's still there." 

"If! But that's abs " 

" It's a jolly place to burgle," interrupted 
Patterson ; " easy, too. There's a veranda 
all round this floor, all round your bedroom 
as well. Nothing easier than for someone to 
get a ladder, prige open the shutters, and 
there you are. See ? " 

" Yes— I see," said Ronald Wingate, 
whose tired-out body and shattered nerves 
worked upon his imagination ; made him 
visualize his thoughts. "I say" — Patterson's 
personality, big, boisterous, hostile, was, with 
Patterson's words, making him faint and sick 
— " I say, d-do you mind if I turn in ? " 

There was a pause, during which, in his 
self-conscious shamefacedness, Ronald Win- 
gate suffered the tortures of the accursed. 
Then Patterson touched off the switches and 
strode across the room. He went out, waited 
till Ronald was beside him, then opened a 
door beyond. 

"That's your room," he said. "Good 
night ; I hope you'll sleep well. Yell out if 
you see the deaders ; shout if that burglar 
comes ! " And contempt, just masked 
enough to hurt the hearer, was plain to read 
in his voice. Then he shut the door upon 
Ronald and left him at last alone. 

\ >t>ogle 

" The Crime at Wat Tylers House." 

Ronald Wingate shuddered, put the book- 
let on the dressing-table — put it there face 
downwards — and began to undress. 

He undressed hurriedly, jumping into bed 
hastily, as if in flight from Patterson's story, 
and the wind, and the large, terrifying 
spaciousness of his room. He was tired, and 
sleep invaded him ; he slept soundly for a 
time. He awoke with £ start — to find 
himself in pitch darkness On the floor, fleeing 
from an oppression : a clutch at his windpipe, 
his throat. Shivering, he turned to bed again. 
A second time he was awake. Once more 
sleep invaded him : once more he woke with 
a start. He heard something; he sat upright; 
he listened, leaned forward, looked into utter 
blackness for what he could not see. The 
sound ceased. Though the wind had some- 
what fallen, he could hear nothing but the 
dull, dead downpour of rain. 

Then the sound came again. 

" It's my nerves, my nerves !" — so his brain 
shouted to him. 

But truth— slow truth— glimpsed on to 
him; and then, in a flash, He knew — and 
was out upon the floor. 

Something had touched, was touching — yet 
still shifted — on the veranda -rail outside. 
That something was groping, seeking 
ing security; it grated with faintness; and 
the answering wood thrilled to its sockets; 
thrilled, as it seemed, to that cold, benumbing 
floor. Then, with a little jerk, the thing that 
shifted seemed to stay quite still. And the 
noise ceased— but not before Ronald Wingate 
had known it for the scrape, scrape of a 
ladder on the wide veranda-raiL 

There came a gap of silence. In it Ronald 
Wingate, standing there— his hair retorted, 
his skin as gooseflesh — heard the slow 
ascending, the careful setting of a leg across 
the rail. Then— the sound was unmistak- 
able — feet meeting, moving upon the grating, 
groaning planks. And after that a panting — 
fierce, distressful — the mighty effort of a 
human being sore put to it to breathe. Then 
a light — dazzling, momentary — flashed at the 
bedroom window, ceasing as soon as sent 
More panting ; more footsteps in their passage 
over the planks ; footsteps retreating, more 
faintly sounding, but most audible yet. A 
pause — a wrench— a turning — a gasp — a 
silence — a gasp again— another wrench — the 
pushing open of windows— and no more. 

And the heart of the hearer stood still for 
one long second, then galloped forward, 
pounding at his breast. Then moral courage 
and character conquered nerves which fate 




had made frail Ronald Wingate felt for the 
poker, snatched it, drew curtain swiftly, 
opened windows, then lightly stepped beyond 
He tiptoed forward, feeling at the wall. The 
wall ceased. He found a window wide. 

It was dark— dark as Erebus ; he could 
see nothing; but he could hear. A panting 
sound persisted ; dominated all else. It was 

not burglary, but a fire ? To prove it came a 
sudden crackle — a match leaped into flame* 
Ronald Wingate, coward and hero, stayed 
his hand no more. He rushed forward, feel- 
ing for the switch, There was, ere he touched 
it, a gasp, a groan, a clumsy, ponderous turn, 
"I must dash at him — I must dash at him," 
thought Ronald; *'the lights will dazzle him. 


as if some half-choked monster fought for 
life and breath. 

Swish ! Swish ! Swish ! 

What was it? What was that sound like 
the impact of water upon glass? What was it? 
What—a smell, nauseating, sickly, rose and 
filled the room. It was oil —oil of paraffin — 
and someone was throwing it on the china 
cabinets, panting as he threw. And the 
object of the thrower ? There was no room 
for doubt What else but brute destruction ; 

I must strike before he shoots." He touched 
the switch, the lights blazed, and he made 
ready to leap and rush, But him, too, the 
brightness dazzled ; his eyes were fogged and 
tricked. And then he saw clear — saw a 
mountain of terror, who stared, rooted to the 

He was gross ; he was colossal ; he was vast 
to the point of monstrousness- — his cheeks 
swelled out and bulking, his chin beringed 
with gross and pendulous flesh. His eyes 



were as pig's eyes t hidden and cradled in fat + 
His hands were like a giant's hands. His 
neck was huge as a bull's. 

Ronald Wingate, at the sight and size of 
him, at the amazing horror that he was, 
stayed immovable^ held by amazement, not 
fear. The man - monster was apparently 
unarmed. The match, still burning, licked 
at his fingers ; then, undropped, was con- 
sumed The eyes— the little pig's eyes, half 
hidden in their frames of flesh, with the 

the sight of the vast unknown, Patterson, 
too, stayed still. It was the unknown who 
moved. He turned ; he twisted ; gasped, 
turned back again, hung, swayed, half- 
toppled, his lips working, his throat muscles 
throbbing, his great breast heaving ; the 
whole huge frame of him seeming to fight 
against asphyxiation, as fights a landed fish. 

And suddenly he collapsed, gasped a 
shriek at the watchers, gave at the knees, 
and fell, dull and huddled, to the floor. 


awful terror that they mirrored— stay with 
Ronald still. 

Then — to this duel of looks, to Ronald 
Wingate's si range calm courage, and to the 
wordless terror of Ronald Wingate's huge 
protagonist— came a new happening, a fresh 
party to the scene. Behind the mountain — 
where he stood, now, in the room's centre— 
the door was flung open, and a man in 
pyjamas, pistol- holding, dashed in. 

u Patterson ! " 

The name— and no more than the name — 
left Ronald Wingate's lips. For, like him, at 



11 Good God ! n cried Patterson and Ronald 
Wingate in otie breath, "Good Cod!" 

Ronald Wingate ran forward. Patterson 
waved him back. 

" Don't touch him, Wingate, Leave him 

" He's dying ! " 

"Dying? He may be foxing. Wait, I 
tell you — wait ! " 

Ronald Wingate hesitated. Patterson 
stood motionless, his pistol pointed at the 
bunched and shapeless mass. Then sud- 
denly he came furijrJ, dropped the revolver, 




fell upon bis knees, and tore at the Shake- 
speare collar, opening waistcoat and shirt. 

" You're right, he is dying — it's a stroke or 
something — a fit. Brandy — get the brandy 
— on the table — down in the hall." 

Ronald Wingate — he knew, better than 
Patterson, the signs that tell of death— rushed 
out, ran down, and came back. Patterson 
snatched at the decanter, pouring the spirit 
between the open lips. There was no 
response to the pouring. Patterson set ear 
to the breast; tried pulse at wrist and 
temples; then looked across the body at 
his guest. 

" He is dying ! " It was statement, not 
question, from Ronald Wingate now. 

" He's dead— dead as mutton. It's his 
heart — 1 tell you he's dead." And Patterson 
straightened the great limbs, took a long, 
worked chair-back protector, and set it over 
the distorted face. Then, from either side of 
the fallen, each asked question of each :— 

"Who is he?" 

"A burglar, man — what else should 
he " 

11 No ; he isn't a burglar. Burglars steal — 
not burn. Look ! " Ronald Wingate pointed. 
" Look — at that can— down there ! " 

Patterson followed his finger ; then started; 
for the first time knew and found words for 
that sickly smell of which he had been 
unconsciously conscious since he had flung 
wide the door. 

11 It's paraffin. The fiend ! the devil ! " (the 
proprietary instinct leaped furious into speech). 

"He was Wingate, look at the cabinets 

—look, I tell you— look ! " 

It was a sight strange, incredible ; it was 
an act, puerile, unreasoned ; a deed of utter 
folly — or a deed of uncalculating despair. 
Paraffin had been flung at the glass ; from 
glass, smoothfaced, unreceptive, paraffin had 
dripped to woodwork, was still dripping to 
the floor. A man in his senses— unless made 
mad by fear — would have poured oil on 
carpet or curtain, not flung it where it would 
not avail. But the folly proved the purpose. 
It was the china, not the house, the china 
that the unknown — the monster had come 
there to destroy. With the certainty came 
solution, explanation. Patterson blurted his 
theory out. 

" I've got it ! He wasn't a burglar — he was 
a collector." 

" A collector ? " 

" Yes. Can't you see ? There was a piece 
here — perhaps several pieces — which were 
the duplicates of his own — the only existing 
duplicates. He was a crank -like my uncle 

— he had lived with his stuff till he'd got 
cracked about it— and then he hears of the 
sale. His— his kink made him mad on this 
one subject — and so he comes here to 
destroy, and to enhance the value of his 
own stuff fifty-fold by making it unique. Lots 
of people are mad on one thing — like this 
chap — and, well, there you are. But" — 
Patterson looked at the china that was going 
to Christie's — " but hang me if it's worth the 
life of a man ! " 

Ronald Wingate said nothing ; the reaction 
was beginning to tell. He was tired, jaded, 
exhausted, and played out ; it didn't matter, 
somehow, if fifty men died or fifty fellows 
threw paraffin. He spoke without expression ; 
he moved like a mechanical toy. 

" Yes," he said, very dully. " Yes — I 
suppose you're right. I agree with you ; it 
isn't worth the life of a man." And as dully 
as he had spoken he passed out through the 
door which his host held open — and locked. 

" Better get on a dressing-gown and come 
down and drink something," came Patterson's 
suggestion. " You'll find me in the hall." 
Ronald Wingate went into his bedroom, got 
into an overcoat (which is the dressing-gown 
of the indigent), and obeyed. Patterson 
mixed the drink ; mixed it very strong. 

"Sit down and lap that up; it'll do you 
good. I'll telephone— the police-station — 

Patterson walked to the receiver ; turned 
the handle at its side, then set the ear-piece 
to his ear. 

11 Halloa ! Halloa, there ! Halloa, Ex- 
change ! Oh— hang the people ! " Patterson 
rang again. There was no answer, no sound, 
save now and then a wind-shriek and the 
pitiless downpour of the rain. Patterson rang 
many times before he understood. 

" That wind must have broken the wire or 
something— I can't make the beggars hear. 
Blessed if I'm going to turn out in this rain 
— the heath's as dark as pitch. We shall 
have to wait till morning — or till the rain 
shuts up." 

" Yes— yes— I see," said Ronald Wingate, 
who had consumed his whisky and reclined 
in his high-backed chair. And he closed his 
eyes in spite of himself— opened them once 
or twice, saw Patterson sitting opposite to 
him, felt vaguely that his host's eyes were not 
contemptuous, but held sympathy and were 
kind. Then he knew no more. 

He woke — to find himself in his bedroom 
— blinds up— daylight full — Patterson sitting 
beside him, proffering tea. Ronald Win- 
gate rubbed his eyes bewilderedly, sat up, fell 






back ; then sat up once more. Time and 
place came back to him, with them memory, 
and, after memory, speech. 

"The china," he blurted— "the china— 
the chap in the drawing-room— and the 
paraffin. I haven't— I say— I haven't dreamed 
it? It isn't like a chap in a story— it isn't— I 
know it's not a dream," 

11 No. Take this." Patterson spoke 
.slowly, giving cup and saucer into Ronalds 
hand, " No — it wasn't a dream — he's 
there— in the drawing room — and the police 
are here, too, But I let you sleep on. 1 ' 

Digitized by Google 

"But"— Ronald 
Wingate paused, 
the cup suspended 
midway between 
saucer and mouth 
— *'but I went to 
sleep downstairs. 
How did I get 
here ? How on 
edr th—" 

"Oh, that's all 
right I carried 
you. You aren't 
all that heavy, you 
know, You were 
doggy -tired and 
you never moved 
a muscle. Awful 
rum thing, that ! " 
Patterson laughed 
rather awkwardly. 
Ronald Wingate 
felt shamed. He 
had been feeble — 
he always was 
feeble — tired out 
by nothing— now. 
Then Patterson 
began again, 

" I say," he said, 
suddenly, " you 
were most awfully 
plucky, you know." 

" Plucky ! I » 

Ronald Wingate 
stared at him. 
" Plucky ! Why, I 
was frightened to 

11 Before ; yes, I 
know you were. 
But not when the 
beggar came. You 
dashed out like a 
Trojan - — to save 
my property; and 
if I hadn't heard him, and you'd had a scrap 

— well, weight tells, and you might ■" 

Patterson broke off. Ronald Wingate said 
nothing, not knowing what to say. This was 
a new Patterson— not the Patterson of that 
midnight supper who had tried to bully him 
into fear. 

" I was a beast to you over that watch- 
maker business," began Patterson, again. 
"No end of a beast — and about the china, 
too. Tried to frighten you into being ashamed 
of yourself— when it was I that ought to 
have been ashamed." 






11 Oh, but I was a coward ! I " 

11 No, you weren't — / was. I've had things 
out with myself, sitting alone all night. And 
I owe you something else besides an apology. 
Look here— I want you to take over my 

" Your business ! " 

11 Yes— from Fullerton, Floyd, and Maclise. 
They've got more than they know what to do 
with, and you're to have my part of it 
and " 

"But it isn't etiqu- 

" Etiquette be hanged ! " Patterson hid the 
jam of reparation in the powder of noisy 
reproof. " It's my affair who I make my 
solicitors— and you're to have it. Don't argue. 
Consider it settled See ! " 

"I see." Ronald Wingate, who had 
made his protest, now protested no more. 
"Thanks awfully — awfully " 

" Rot ! You deserve it. Shut up ! I 

think " There was a knock at the door. 

11 Halloa there— come in ! " 

A maid entered, neat-capped and trim. 

" Mr. Morson, sir. He's in the hall." 

"Thank you. I'll be down immediately." 
The maid departed. "That's the South 
Kensington Johnny. Expert, don't you 
know. Wonder if the nation will buy it, 
Wingate, or if America will get the lot ? Jove, 
when you come to think of it, it was a 
lucky escape." 

Ronald Wingate shuddered. He was 
remembering too much. And then, "Who 
was he ? " he asked, suddenly. " Do— do 
the police know ? " 

" Not a bit of it Never seen him, they 
say; but it'll be easy to find out. He— a 
man like that must be well known. But, 
hang it all, Wingate "—Patterson quailed 
before memory— "hang it all, it's a beast of 
an affair. You bustle and dress, now. Then 
come along down." 

Patterson went out loudly. Ronald 
Wingate lay abed, thinking of the night's 
happenings, pondering upon what Patterson's 
business meant. Patterson was worth three 
hundred thousand — more, perhaps, than 
that. Fullerton and Floyd's loss would be 
Gibb and Wingate's gain. It meant health, 
holidays for himself, Girton for that eldest 
sister ; it meant all that counted in the world. 
Ronald Wingate, realizing his luck, bent upon 
backing it, leaped to the floor. He bathed, 
and shaved and dressed ; then, still thin, still 
pale and ill-looking, but his heart beating 
with a hope which had long been a stranger 
to him, he came on to the landing ; heard 
voices in the hall. 


He descended ; saw, grouped with Patter- 
son, a moustached man in uniform, and a 
man, fair, clean-shaven, impeccably attired. 
Patterson detached himself from them and 
came forward. His voice was serious, 

"This is Mr. Wingate — Mr. Morson. I 
don't think you know each other. Wingate's 
my man of business — at least he's going to be 
— from now." 

Morson— the very type of the upper Civil 
Servant— took Ronald Wingate's hand. 

" How d'you do?" he said. "How d'you 
do ? " And he added, " You are in for a very 
big thing." 

"A big thing? Oh, yes. This— this 
burgl " 

But Patterson cut him short. 

" He's found out — he's recognised. Morson 
knew him at once." 

" Who was he ? A crank— a collector? " 

Morson shook his head ; held the mystery 
still a moment more. 

"There are two partners," he said, reflec- 
tively, "and — I'm sure an action will lie. 
You are certain " (Morson turned now to 
Patterson) — "you are absolutely certain that 
he bought everything for your uncle— every- 
thing — especially that " 

"Oh, rather! I have the bills, the corre- 
spondence about commission." 

"I see." Morson reflected a moment. 
" Well, you'll recover — if you care to fight." 

" Fight ? " echoed Patterson. " Fight ? I 
should rather think so. Why, they won't 
dare go into court." The expert nodded 
vigorously, approving Patterson's speech. 

Ronald Wingate stared, utterly mystified ; 
looking at them all in turn. " I don't follow 
you. What are you talking of? Who— who is 
he, after all?" 

" He's Weiniger," Patterson answered him. 
" Weiniger, the great dealer — you must have 
heard his name," 

" Yes ; often. What was his object — 
what was he doing here ? " 

" He was here " — Morson stepped forward 
— " to save his reputation — his business 
existence— his liberty itself." 

" His liberty — his business existence ? I 
don't follow — I don't understand." 

Patterson caught Ronald's arm quickly, 
giving him the truth at last. 

" He bought the china for my uncle— as 
my uncle's agent — and he came here to burn 
the room out— to save himself from jail. 
Morson has examined every piece of the 
Worcester. It is a sham— and the marks 
are forged ! ,r 


ike Twenty Greatest M 


[The question, "Which are the twenty greatest men of the past?" was put 
to the leading historians and scholars of the day, who were supplied, by way 
of text, with a list made out by Mr, CarnegieJ 

HE widespread interest occa- 
sioned by a recent article in 
The Strand on the Ten 
Greatest Living Men has sug- 
gested to a number of readers 
an extension of the idea so as 
to embrace not merely the ten 
but the twenty greatest men of the past. For 
the selection to be limited to ten was a great 
stumbling-block in the first symposium ; but 
if the number were to be thus increased, 
the field of selection must be circumscribed 
within a definite period— to s say, the past 
thousand years or so. We start with the 
list of Mr. Carnegie, of which the rest are 
chiefly criticisms and adaptations, 

" After mature deliberation/' declares Mr. 
Andrew Carnegie, who 3 although a self-made 
man, has indulged in wide reading and reflec- 
tion, " I have come to the conclusion that the 

men must be pure personal opinion, and the 
opinion of an historian, or an historical 
scholar, a man trained, so to speak, in 
historical and biographical values, is likely 
to be very different from that of a success- 
ful man of business, Thus the Rev. Dr. 
HL A, James , President of St. John's College, 
Oxford, forwards to the Editor of The Strand 
the following list, which is a far different thing 
from Mr, Carnegie's :— 

Shakespeare, Newton. 

Milton. Galileo.' 

Bacon. Harvey. 

Goethe. Arkwright* 

Kant. Stephenson. 

Luther. Damin, 

Beethoven. Edison, 

Raphael, Napoleon, 

Columbus, Pitt 

Gutenberg. Bismarck. 

The difficulty of selection which besets so 





twenty greatest men — the men to whom 
modern civilization owes most — are these : — 


Morton, discoverer of ether. 

Tenner, discoverer of vaccination. 

Keilson, inventor of hot blast in manufacture of iron. 


Burns, the Scotch poet, 

Gutenberg, inventor of printing, 

Edison, applicr of electricity. 

Siemens^ inventor of water meter. 

Re^emer, inventor of steel process, 

Mushet, inventor of steel process, 


Walt, improvement on steam engine, 

Ik II, inventor of telephone. 

Ark wright, inventor of cot ton -spinning machinery. 

Franklin, discoverer of electricity, 

Murdock, first to employ coal as illuminant. 

Hargreavcs, inventor of spinning jenny. 

Stephenson, inventor of locomotive. 

Symington, inventor of rotary engine/' 

Of course, any list of the twenty j 

many is felt keenly by the historian. Dr. 
Thomas Hodgkin, author of " The Life of 
Charlemagne/ 3 who contributes the following 
very interesting remarks : — 

u I have compiled a list of the twenty 
great men to whom may be attributed the 
advance in our modern civilization. Following 
the precedent of Mr. Carnegie, I have intro- 
duced names great in literature as well as in 
the mechanical arts, though I think it would 
have been better to keep these two classes 
entirely separate- I am by no means 
satisfied with my list,, which I know contains 
far too large a proportion of Englishmen, 
The inventor of photography ought to find 
a place in it. I believe this honour may be 
rightly claimed for our own countryman, 
Talbot, but I am not sufficiently sure of this 
to insert his name. Napoleon ought cer- 
tainly to hi* here, if it could be understood 




that he ranks here not as warrior, but as 
legislator and sweeper-away of old feudal 
encumbrances. Leibnitz also, as discoverer 
of the differential calculus, should certainly 
be included. If room is wanted for these 
three names I am afraid it would have to be 
obtained by the sacrifice (which I should 
regret) of Davy, Kant, and Kelvin, Dante's 
name is inserted, not so much because of 
the grandeur of his poetry as by reason of 
his demonstration that a great poem could 
be written in a modern vernacular language, 
" I am not/' he adds, " satisfied with the 
omission of Darwin's name, and perceive to 
my sorrow that I have omitted some great 
discoverers, as Vasco da Gama, Magellan, 
Cook , and Livingstone." 

li By a singular coincidence," writes Mr. 
G. F. Wolselcy, " some years ago Field- 
Marshal Viscount Wolseley himself drew up 
a list of the twenty greatest men according to 
his reading of modern history, which The 



Strand may care to publish/' The list is 
as follows : — 



Leonardo da Vinci, 



Peter the Great 

SIj.iLl .pea re. 

Michel Angelo. 













Iji sending his list Mr. H. E. Egerton, 
Beit Professor of Colonial History, Oxford, 
writes : — 

u It seems impossible to reduce to a common 
denominator men who have influenced civiliza- 
tion in the field of thought and in the field of 
material invention, I have therefore omitted 
the latter, not because I have any desire to 
belittle their claims, but because they seem 
to belong to a different category. I have 
included Napoleon because, with all his faults, 
he was the first effective preacher of the 
doctrine * la carriire auverle aux talents.' 

Digitized by OOOgle 

Gm en berg* 












Frederick the Great. 








"lam not in love/' writes Mr. Andrew 



Lang, " with modern civilization, and do 
not know precisely how it should be defined. 
No doubt the list should include eminent 
Socialists and religious innovators like 
Luther and Calvin, while the author of the 
1 Code Napoleon ' can scarcely be omitted. Sir 
Isaac Newton and Darwin might be included, 
and it is improbable that only two or three 
non-English-speaking men should have the 
right to a place in the list. Voltaire and 
Rousseau are responsible for a good deal of 
modern civilization." The eminent scholar 
and essayist's list reads as follows : — 
Shakespeare. Columbus. 






Bee ill oven. 







Professor A. C. 

Benson. C.V.O.. 



" I have been thinking over Mr. Carnegie's 
list, and I regTet to say that I have never 
even heard of some of them ! Who on earth 
are Neilson and Symington ? It seems to 
me that much depends on what one means 
by civilization, and also what one means by 




f modern/ Mr. Carnegie's list seems much 
concerned with inventors of industrial pro- 
cesses. I do not myself think that civiliza- 
tion in its best sense means comfort, or even 
wide opportunities for making great fortunes ; 
but rather increased facilities for education, 
a strong sense of disinterestedness, and a 
desire for social welfare, I couldn't possibly 



make a selection of twenty names who should 
be the pioneers of civilization extending over 
three hundred years — but of recent names I 
should wish to include Lister, Florence 
Nightingale, Pasteup Ruskin, CarlylCj and 
Robert Browning." 

* £ Mr. Carnegie can scarcely have intended 
his list to be an appeal to scholars/' writes 
Professor Victor Flarr, the Librarian of the 
Royal College of Surgeons and Editor of 
" Men and Women of the Time/' etc., ' ( unless 
he seriously believes that civilization is mainly 
an affair of mechanics and metallurgy ; and 
that the great civilizsrs have been chiefly 
Scots or Americans. Were Mr, Carnegie a 
less important man, one would be tempted 
to address to him Moliire's famous tag, 
1 Vous etes orfevre, monsieur.' Inventors are, 
indeed, the most difficult people to discover, 
WhOj for instance — Ronalds, Wheatstone, or 
Cooke — invented the electric telegraph ? 
Besides, the greatest inventions were never 
made by single individuals at all, but by 
races during infinite ages. Thus cooking, 
which is infinitely more important to the 
human race than the telephone, was doubtless 
a gradually evolved discovery; the plough 
and the house certainly were," 

Professor Plarr gives the following list : — 

Gutenberg (supposing Frederick the Great, 
him to have in- Washington, 
vented printing). The elder Pitt. 

Jsaac Newton, Napoleon, 

Descartes. Martin Luther. 

Kant, Shakespeare, 

Tenner- Milton, 

Darwin. Goethe. 

Pasteur. Michel Angelo. 

Cromwell, Raphael 

Peter the Great Beethoven. 

" Among these — mainly great civilizing 
influences— one may count Napoleon, qua 
legist and bringer of light into dark places, 

Digitized by GQOglc 

and Frederick the Great, qud great patriot 
(though one is sorry that he was a Prussian 
patriot j as Prussia is a decivilizing influence)/' 

" The question is too difficult/' writes 
Professor Gilbert Murray, the author of the 
u History of Ancient Greek Literature*" " Do 
you call a man * great ' because (i) he happened 



to exercise a great effect on the worlds or even 
to be a sort of symbol or figure-head for such 
an effect ; or (V) because he had, whether 
influential or not, great qualities in himself ? 
Of course j some people like Napoleon ; but 
the man whose name h linked with a great 
event or great invention need not, in the 
second and, I think, the natural sensej be 
in the least a great man," 

" Does not everything depend/ 1 writes 
Professor T. Rice Holmes, author of the 
" History of the Indian Mutiny/' " upon what 
is meant by ' the advance of our modern 
civilization J ? Mr. Carnegie's list is open to 
two opinions. First, of his twenty ' greatest 
men ' seventeen belong to English-speaking 
nations ; surely this is carrying patriotism 
too far. Secondly, his list includes too many 
inventors, who have merely facilitated com- 
munication or devised new methods of manu- 
facture, or otherwise contributed to the pros- 
perity of Pittsburg. I think that more room 
should be found for those who in other ways 
have done something great for mankind — 
relieved suffering, bestowed freedom, created 
national! ties , added to knowledge, combated 
superstition } or given pure delight to men 
and lifted up their hearts by noble works of 
art or literature. Here is my list, of which 
I am not at all enamoured. I assume that 
you wish it to be confined to what is called 
modern history :■ — 

Bacon. Michel Angelo. 

Beethoven. Millet. 

Bismarck. Mommsen, 

Cervantes. Newton* 

Columbus- Pitt (the elder), 

Darwin. Shakespeare. 

Goethe* Tolstoi. 

Gutenberg. Voltaire. 

Leonardo da Vinci. Watt. 

Lister- , r Wilberforee." 

Original from 



" Confining myself/ 1 writes Mr, Lucien 
Wolf, Vice-President of the Jewish Historical 
Society/* to Mr. Carnegie's definition of great- 
ness — that is to say, men who are chiefly 
responsible for the ' advance of our modern 
civilization ' — I venture to suggest the 
enclosed list. It is not satisfactory for two 
reasons. In the first place, more than twenty 
men have been concerned in supplying the 
essentials of our civilized system in the fields 
of politics, science, and literature ; and, in 
the second place, I fancy we are a tittle too 
arrogant in assuming that civilization is 
confined to Europe and America. None of 
the lists you sent me contains a name to 
represent art, and I hesitate to suggest one 
my self t although obviously any list is incom- 
plete without one* 

Napoleon. Shakespeare. 
Pitt. Goethe. 
Cromwell New ton- 
Wash ingtorL Darwin, 
Wilbcrforce. Tenner, 
Bismarck* Gutenberg, 
Ben 1 ham, Fran kl in , 
Cobdeu. Stephenson. 
Luther- Watt* 
Vo I ta i re. Ark wright ." 

Miss Emily Foxcroft, the authoress of " The 

Professor A. F, Pollard, assistant-keeper in 
the library of the British Museum, sends no 
list, but his reasons for not doing so are so 
interesting that we quote his letter in full :— 

11 1 am afraid I must excuse myself from 
the impossible task of drawing up a list of 
the twenty greatest men in history to whom 
can be attributed the advance of our modem 
civilization. The task is impossible, because 
there are no means uf mm paring those ser- 
vices rendered to men's souls, to their minds, 
and to their bodies, out of which modern 
civilization has been built up. It is com- 
paratively easy to class candidates at an 
examination, although even there the classifi- 
cation always does considerable injustice. 
But how are we to say that Columbus is 
greater than Luther, or vice versa ? One 
might as well ask for the mathematical value 
of a beautiful sunset, or the poetic worth 
of Pittsburg, 

" Secondly, the evil of setting up false 
exemplars, to which you refer, is as nothing 
compared with the falsity of regarding 
civilization as the w r ork of any twenty or 
any hundred great men. Civilization is the 
collective product of the human race, and 
even the greatest inventors have added but 




Life and Works of Sir George SaviJle, Bart„" 
encloses a list which she asks may not be 
printed without her heading and expla- 
nations : — 

List of the twenty persons who have most obviously 
influenced the course of European and North American 
civilization during the last five hundred years : — 

1. public LIFE. 
Napoleon L, the reorganizer of France- 
Stein, the reorganizer of Prussia. 
Cavour, the reorganize! of Italy. 
Lincoln, the reoi^anizcr of the States. 
Wellington, the champion oF the European nationalities. 
Wilbcrforce, the protagonist against slavery. 
2. religion,— Luther. 
3. art.— Shakespeare, Raphael, Beethoven. 
4. metaphysics.— Kant. 
5. science. — Darwin, Newton. 
6 applied science and mechanics,— The Inventor 

of Printing, Watt, Edison. 

7. THE ART or HEALING-— Lister, Pasteur, Miss 


8. DISCOVERY.— Columbus. 

by Google 

finishing touches to the labours of forgotten 
fellow-workers. The placing of the fortunate 
few upon pinnacles is a falsifying process, 
worthy only of an idolatrous generation- 
Civilization is like a coral reef. Does it murh 
matter, and can we say, who were the twenty 
greatest insects labouring at its construction ? 
It is the reef that is important. Such lists 
are, indeed, of purely subjective interest ; they 
throw some light on the mental tastes and 
equipment of the compiler, but no list is 
likely to ' commend itself universal! v to 
M-hoiurship.' I note that Mr. Carnegie's 
twenty great men are ail, with the exception 
of Gutenberg and Columbus, of British or 
American nationality ; that of his three men 
of letters all wrote in English; that no 
soldier appears at all T and no statesman except 
Americans ; and that nearly three-quarters 
are mechan^^^^njtj^^some of whom were 




more notorious for the skill with 
which they exploited other men's 
ideas than for their own originality. 
What does all this mean, except that 
Mi\ Carnegie is Mr. Carnegie ? His 
laudable devotion to the cause of 
peace leads him to exclude Alexander 
the Great, Caesar, Napoleon, and 
even George Washington from the 
ranks of great men ; his concentra- 
tion upon English literature leads him 
to rule out all the Greek poets and philoso- 
phers, as well as Virgil and Dante, Moliere 
and Goethe* Even science does not attract 
him j unless it is mechanical or applied, 
Jenner, it is true, is there i but no place 
has been found for Copernicus, Galileo, 
Newton, or Darwin. Philosophy, painting, 
sculpture, and music contribute nothing to 
Mr, Carnegie's civilization, and Aristotle, 
Raphael. Michel Angelo, Handel give place to 
Edison, Bessemer Murdock, and Symington." 

Commenting on Mr. Carnegie's list, Mr. 

William de Morgan, the author, observes ; — 

" A great many of Mr. Carnegie's nominees 

are no doubt responsible 

0for a share in £ the advance 
of our modern civiliza- 
tion/ But I think it is 
rather a shame to include 
Shakespeare among the 



" Dictionary of 
" seems to me 
two grounds : 

"Mr. Carnegie's list," 
writes Mr, Thomas Sec- 
combe, co-editor of the 
National Biography/' 
specially inadequate on 
(i) His men represent, 
exclusively almost, the winning of know- 
ledge and power, mere conditions of 
modern civilization. What is wanted, surely 3 
is a list of creators of ideas leading to civility, 
human justice, and fraternity among men. 
(2) More than in any other spheres of human 
activity inventors and discoverers are just 
culminants who, by a lucky turn, enter into 
the fruits of other men's preparatory labours. 
No one can identify great in- 
ventors. Who, for instance, invented 
writing, printing, steam power, fly- 
ing, anaesthetics ? Every nation 
puts forward its own candidate, 
and it is impossible to decide be- 
tween the different claims, Thought 
must underlie civilization, and the 
greatest contributors to modem 
civilization, from an historic point liiscolx 

Digitized by Lt< 

of view, are the individual thinkers 
who have determined the ply and 
range of modern ideas. Ideas are 
the soul of history* With some 
help from my class in history at the 
East London College, I have drawn 
up the following list. Much to-day 
is postulated upon the thought of 
Ar i s totl e, Acq u i nas, Mohammed, 
Charlemagne, Hildebrand, and many 
others ; but, to go no farther back than the 
era of discovery, Renaissance and Reforma- 
tion, from which we used to be told we 
inherited civil and religious liberty, the 
following names have gradually emerged, 
(I largely exclude inventors and discoverers, 
like Columbus, as being so much the blind 
instruments of chance.) 

Erasmus (rep resenting New Thought and Scholarship)* 
Machiavelli (representing Sovereignty of the Modern 

Calvin (in preference to Luther, representing most 

clearly Theocratic Ideas and Puritan Morals) 
Grotius (representing Scholarship and International 

Shakespeare (as perhaps the greatest infuser of imagina- 
tion into thought through literature), 
Descartes (in preference to 
Kant or Hume, as pioneer 
of Modem Metaphysical 
Peter the Great (as represent- 
ing, with the birth of 
Russia, new relations be- 
tween East and West, and 
corresponding displace- 
Newton (as representing, on 
the whole, better than 
Galileo or Leibnitz, advance 
in Mathematical Discovery 
and Physical Science). 
Voltaire (standing for common sense in Religion and 
Politics, vi j -J -vis of authority— us Locke in 
Rousseau (representing Return to Nature, Human 

Equality, and Humane Education}* 
Frederick the Great (Paternal Rule, Prussian Ascend- 
ancy, German Unity}. 
Washington (Colonial Integrity and Independence, 
and a reflex of Liberty from New World to Old). 
Goethe (as representing, on the whole, better than 
Darwin, modern Knowledge and the general idea 
of Evolution)* 
Napoleon (as representing a portion at least of the 
teaching of the Revolution and a Synthesis 
of Central Power). 
Nietzsche (representing rule of Aristocracy 

as opposed to altruistic ideas). 
Cavotir (perhaps in preference to Bis- 
marck, as representing modem Political 
Newman (as representing revival of 
Medievalism and Renaissance oj 
Catholic Ideas — including Modern- 
Pasteur (as re presenting rationale of the 
medem War against Disease). 





Cariyle, Return, or Taine (it is hard to decide which, as 
representing Vanity of Material Progress , Com- 
parative Religion, or Scientific Investigation in 
H istory). 

Tofeloi (representing idea of Universal Peace, and a 
new idea of Altruism in Non-resistance)," 

The well-known author and reviewer, 
Mr. George S, Layard. writes : — 

" Your flattering request intrigues me. 
Vou ask me to compile 'a list of the twenty 
greatest men to whom I attribute the 
advance of our modern civilization/ And 
further you ask me whether Mr. Andrew 
Carnegie's list ' commends itself universally 



to scholarship.' Let us clear the ground. 
In the first plate, I deny that our modern 
civilization has advanced. In the second, 
I cannot presume to speak for universal 
scholarship j nor do I imagine that scholar- 
ship^ as such, knows anything of the matter. 
But then, probably, I define civilization 
something differently from Mr, Carnegie. I 
take it that civilization rightly means some- 
thing other than mere intellectual or material 
advancement j that it coonotes something 
spiritual and individual rather than something 
exoteric and collective. And, so defined, 
civilization seems to me to have retrogressed, 
to have become degenerate and worm-eaten, 
the breeding-ground of the gerrymanders , the 
botcher j the advertiser, the quack vender of 
nostrums. Thus you will see that my twenty 
votes must he given to those who have per- 
haps, on the whole, rather retarded than 
advanced what Mr. Carnegie seems to con- 
sider the essential aims of modern civilization. 
fi Leaving out, then, the strictly religious 
teachers, I am inclined at a moment's notice 
to make choice of the following : — 

Kewton. Charlemagne. 

Darwin. Cromwell. 

Scba|>enhauer Goethe* 

Carl vie. Browning, 

Voltaire. Lincoln* 

Jacob Grimm. Da Vinci. 

Beethoven . H okusai . 

Wagner. Tolstoi, 

Shakespeare, Booth. 

Dante. Ibsen, 

Mr. D. G. Hogarth, ALA,, the archaeological 
explorer and geographer, writes : — 

Everyone's list must be affected bv sub- 

tized by GoOglC 

jective preferences (as Mr, Carnegie's seems 
to me v to' be very markedly), and cannot be 
expected to convince anyone else ! The best 
one can do is to select the names which stand 
for what one thinks are the most important 
features of modern civilization, although it k 
often impossible to ascribe these features to 
one man or to any man. For instance^ there 
is no name to stand for Roman Law, or for 
Law at all, I suggest Napoleon . bearing in 
mind also how much his system is responsible 
for the governmental scheme of civilized 
nations, as well as for the political arrange* 



VoL nIiiL-20. 

ment of modern Europe. Nor can we omit 
the Mecran prophet, whose creed does much 
to lift savage races out of sheer barbarism, 
though it cannot lift them to the highest 
civilization. The rest of my names need no 

Aristotle. New ton. 

Alexander the Great. Harvey. 

Paul of Tarsus, Wilberforce. 

Moha mined of Mecca. Bessemer, 

Luther. Ark w right. 

Voltaire. Franklin. 

Washington, Stephenson, 

Napoleon. Galileo. 

Augustus CttSftr* Darwin. 

And one other name, to rep resent the work done for 
civilization by the Roman Church.'* 

And now, what is the result of these most 
interesting expressions of opinion ? The list 
below gives the names most frequently chosen 
and the number of votes each has received. 
It will be noticed that the list includes more 
than twenty names, owing to no fewer than 
nine having received four votes each ; but 
perhaps the most interesting point about it 
is the way in which it differs from that 
supplied by Mr, Carnegie: — 

Shakesj>eare . . . . ill Bacon . . • , . . 5 

Darwin 10 Stephenson ., .. 5 

Newton 10 Watt.. ., ♦. . . 5 

Gutenberg * * ■ ^ 9 Arkwright . * , , 4 

NfcpoJeon., , , . , ■ 9 Cromwell*. . - .. 4 

Luther . . . . . . 8 Dante - , , . , , 4 

Goethe . . - . . , 7 Galileo . , . . . . 4 

Voltaire .. , . .. 7 Jenner ,, .. .. 4 

Beethoven . . . . 6 Pasteur * . . . , , 4 

Columbus ., .. 6 Pill .. ,, .. 4 

Washington .. .. 6 ■ Raphael ,, *. .. 4 


The Prince and Betty. 



-Illustrated ty Dudley Hardy, R.L 


BENJAMIN SCO BELL, a wealthy American, who holds a gambling concession from the Republic of 
Mervo, A few years back Mervo had expelled its ruler, Prince Charles, and turned itself into 
a Republic 

PRINCK JOHN OF MERVO, the late ruler's son, who, quite unaware of his rank, has been living 
in England under the name of John Maude, is summoned in Mervo by Mr. Scobell, who thinks 
that the restoration of Royalty will increase the attractions of his Casino. 

BETTY SILVER, ScobelTs stepdaughter, who has already met Prince John (as John Maude) in 
England, is also summoned to Mervo t where she comes across him in the Casino, and agrees to 
meet him again next morning. In Lhe meantime, however s learning John Maude's real name, and 
also that ScobeiPs object in sending for her is to bring about a marriage between them, she leaves 
Mervo by the first steamer, but is followed by Prince John. 




HE idea of flight had not 
occurred to Betty immedi- 
ate 1 y . On leaving Mr. 
Scobell 's villa she had walked 
aimlessly out along the hill- 
side. At first her mind was 
stunned, but gradually, as 
blood begins to circulate in a frozen limb, 
thought had returned , slowly at first, then 
in a wave that seethed and burned and tor- 
tured. She realized now, as she had never 
realized before, the place John had held in 
her life. That it should have been he, of all 
men, who was Mr. Scobell' s obsequious 
employe, the man whom the Casino was 


paying to marry her, complacently ready to 
earn his wages by counterfeiting love ! 

She must go away. That decision stood 
out, clear and definite, in the chaos of her 
thoughts, To meet him, to see the man she 
loved plunging into shame before her eyes, 
would be pain beyond bearing. 

Below, across the valley of vineyards and 
glowing mimosa, the dome of the Casino 
caught the sun and flashed out in a blaze of 
gold. Beyond it, in the little harbour, lay 
the Marseilles packet, lazily breathing smoke 
as it prepared for its journey to the main- 
land, She looked at her watch. She would 
only just have time to catch the boat. 
She turned, and hurried back the way 
she had cqn^ q j na | from 


2 9 x 

Paris, when she arrived at the Gare du 
Lyon in the grey of a rainy morning, had 
much the same effect on Betty as London 
had had on John during his first morning of 
independence. She had been in Paris be fore f 
but then she had been rich, and the city had 
smiled upon her. 

She had fled from Mervo with nothing but 
a few necessaries thrown together in a small 
bag, and there was nothing to detain her at 
the Gare du Lyon. She went straight to 
the Girdle Railways and found a seat on the 
first train. 

At the Gare du Nord all was movement and 

travellers it seemed that the kindly feelings 
which every good American harbours towards 
the French in return for benefits received 
from the late M, Lafayette were, in the case 
of this particular member of the nation, in 
danger of being forgotten, 

Betty's heart went out to the exiles* She 
stopped as she reached them, and hesitated. 
Then she caught the distracted eye of the 
lady in the brown veil, and answered its 
unspoken appeal. 

" Can I help you ? " she said* " I speak 

No shipwrecked mariners sighting a sail 


confusion. Obvious Anglo-Saxons wandered 
about like lost sheep, miserably conscious of 
linguistic deficiencies or stood guard over 
suit-cases with almost a truculent air of 

Presently a group of four attracted Betty's 
attention, Three were plainly Americans , 
a typical doing-Europe family — the father 
grey, patient, and a little bent ; the mother, 
flying the brown veil, the Jolly Roger of the 
travelling American, resolute and unbeaten, 
but for the moment flustered ; the daughter 
slim, trim, straight, jaunty, and clean-cut, 
with that indefinable glitter that stamps the 
American girL The fourth member of the 
group was a polite semaphore in a blue 
blouse, and from the attitude of the three 


could have exhibited more animation than 
did the rescued family. The father's patient 
face lit up as if somebody had pressed a 
switch. His wife's eyes lost their haggard 
look. The daughter, who was nearest, seized 
Betty unaffectedly in her arms and hugged 

Betty laughed. 

14 What is the trouble ? n she asked. " What 
do you want me to tell the porter ? " 

" We want our baggage/' said the patient 
man, pathetically, il We let 'em separate 
us from it at the hotel, and that's the last 
we've seen of it*" 

u Gh t that is quite simple, Fll explain 

to him in a moment. Are you going by the 

boat- train ? ** ■ * 

Original from 




" That's right. We want to get to England, 
if they'll let us." 

Betty explained matters to the porter. 

" It will be all right now," she said. " Just 
go with him and he will do everything that's 

She turned to move away, but a universal 
exclamation of dismay stopped her. 

" Say, you aren't going to leave us ? " 
queried the head of the family, anxiously. 

" You want to take command of this out- 
fit." said his daughter, " or we don't stand a 
dog's chance. Are you travelling by the 
boat-train, too ? Well, won't you join us ? 
This country's got us all scared so that we 
don't know T what we're doing." 

" If you really think I should be any 
help " 

" Help ? " echoed the three, ecstatically. 

" Then I will," said Betty. " But there 
really isn't anything for me to do." 

" Don't you believe it," said the girl. 
" You'll save our lives. This is going to put 
you in the Carnegie Medal class." 

" Let's get away into another compartment, 
where we can talk," suggested the girl, when 
every obstacle had been successfully nego- 
tiated and they had won through to the train. 
" Ma likes to read on a journey, and the old 
gentleman will have to have a smoke to steady 
him after all this." 

They moved down the corridor till they 
found an empty compartment. The American 
girl removed her hat, settled her hair at the 
mirror, and sat down with a sigh of content. 

" Thank goodness," she said, as the train 
gathered speed. " No more Paris for me till 
I've had a squad of professors put me next 
to the language. It's a funny thing. I used 
to tell people I was crazy to go to Paris — and 
now I guess that I must have been. London^ll 
be better, I reckon." 

" Are you going to stay in London ? " 
asked Betty. 

" Not for long. We But, say, let's 

get acquainted. What's your name ? Mine's 
Delia Morrison." 

" Mine " Betty stopped. The thought 

had occurred to her that she had better change 
her name. " Mine is Brown," she said. 

" What's your first name ? " 

" Betty." 

" I shall call you Betty. And you call me 

Delia. What I was saying before we 

Oh, yes. We're going to stay in London for 
a while, then we're going to rent a swell place 
in the country somewhere. A friend of ours 
is fixing it for us now. Something Court's 
place he's trying to get. A court's some- 

by Google 

thing like a castle, isn't it ? Fancy me in a 
castle ! Oh, well," she said, resignedly, " it's 
all in a lifetime ! " 

" Surely you'll like the castle ? " said Betty, 

Delia looked doubtful. 

" I'm not so sure," she said. " You see, 
it's this way/ I don't know much about 
castles, but I do know that we aren't in the 
castle class. A month ago the old gentleman 
was paying-cashier in' a bank, and I was 
keeping one eye on the boss and the other on 
the pad or playing ragtime on the type- 
writer. Well, we were as good at our jobs as 
the next person, but that's no reason why we 
should make any particular hit with the 
effete aristocracy, is it ? If you ask me, our 
team's going to get the, hook before we know 
what's hit us. And I haven't any use for 
society, either. I'm not saying I'm not glad 
to be quit of working at the office, but outside 
that I don't seem to care much. And there's 
another thing. Just before the news came 
that pa had had all that money left him, I 
got engaged." 

She sighed. 

" Yes ? " said Betty, encouragingly. 

"To a boyin the office I was in in New York," 

-continued Delia. " Tom Spiller his name is. 

He was bill-clerk there. Say, do you like red 

hair ? " she broke off. " In a man, I mean. 

Tom's got red hair. You'd like Tom." 

" I wish I could meet him." 

" Gee, I wish I could, too," sighed Delia. 
" You see, pa and ma don't know anything 
about me being engaged. I was getting 
myself worked up to tell them, and, just as 
I was good and ready, along comes all this 
sudden wealth. And now I don't know what 
to do about it. I daren't tell them now. 
Ma's got such large ideas. She don't think 
about anybody lower than an earl these days. 
But, say", nobody's going to make me give 
Tom up." 

" Of course not." 

" If I was good enough for him to marry 
when I was a stenog., he's good enough for 
me to marry when I'm a plute." 

" Of course." * 

Delia looked at her affectionately. 

" You're a comfort, Betty," she said. " I'm 
mighty glad I met you." She sat up, struck 
with an idea. " Say, what are you going to 
do when you get to England ? " 

44 I don't know." 

" Then, say, you've got to stay with us as 
long as ever you can. In London first, and 
then in the country. Gee, it'll be a comfort 

having you around," 

Original from 




Betty flushed. " I'm afraid — " she began, 

" I don't think I'm afraid I can't, 

Delia/' she said. " You don't understand/' 

she went on, nervously. * l You think Fm 

I mustn't pay visits ; I have got to find some 

way of earning 

my 1 i v i n g , 

Except for the 

little money I 

have with me, 

I ha%-en J t a 

pennv in the 


Delia sat 
thinking/' I've 
got it/ J she 
cried. " Lord 
Arthur said I'd 
better have one 
when I got to 
England. He's 
the guy — the 
lord, I mean — 
who's fixing the 
deal about the 
castle. He said 
that I should 
want a com- 
panion — some- 
one to goaround 
with — because 
ma couldn't 
always be tag- 
g ing along. 
You're it!" 

" But "■ 

£< Don't make 
objections. It's 
settled. So 
you'll come to 
the castle after 
all Well have 
the greatest 
time. 111 go 
and tell ma." 

■ Mr. and Mrs. 
Morrison re- 
ceived the news 
with flattering 
approval. The 
spectacle of 
Betty producing order out of chaos at the 
Gare du Nord and speaking the mysterious 
tongue of France with the insouciance of a 
native had left a deep impression on their 
minds. They endorsed her appointment as 
Delia's companion with one voice. 
The rest of the journey passed swiftly for 
Digitized by Vi< 


Betty. A great weight had been lifted from 
her mind. Now that everything was settled 
she saw how terrifying the vague future 
had really been, and how reckless her 
headlong dash into the unknown. 

The Morri- 
sons had en- 
gaged rooms at 
the Cecil, 
Delta, her mag- 
nificent energy 
proof against 
the fatigue of 
a journey from 
Paris, took 
Betty off to a 
theatre after 
dinner, and on 
their return 
sat on her bed 
talking till 
Betty 1 sans wers 
became drowsy 
and discon- 

It was late 
on the follow- 
ing morning 
when Betty 
came down- 
stair*. Inquir- 
ing for the 
Morrisons, she 
was handed a 
note from 
Delia + inform- 
ing her that 
they had gone 
off to do West- 
minster Abbey, 
but would be 
back to lunch 
at one. 

With more 
than an hour to 
pass. Betty 
wandered out 
into the Strand. 
It was nearly 
one o'clock 
when she re- 
turned. As she 
began to mount the hotel steps a taxi-cab 
drew up. and a man with a light moustache 
emerged. He paid the driver and turned to 
enter the hotel. Then he saw Betty, and a 
look of recognition came into his face* 
" Miss Silver ! " he said. 
It was Ltfrd Arthur Hay ling. 






Betty took his outstretched hand and forced 
a smile, but she was disconcerted. If Lord 
Arthur was not the one man in the world 
whom she preferred not to meet, he was not 
far from being that. Even had her circum- 
stances been other than they were, she would 
have wished to avoid him, for it had been at 
their last meeting that she had refused his 
stately and well-expressed offer of marriage. 

" This is a most delightful surprise," said 
Lord Arthur. He stroked his straw-coloured 
moustache. " Are you staying in the hotel ? ' ' 

" Yes," she said. " Are you ? " 

" I have an engagement to meet some 
people here for lunch at one. Americans. 
A Mr. Morrison and his family." 

" Morrison ? " 

" You know them ? I should not have 
imagined that you would have come across 
them. They are excellent people," he said, 
with a sub-tinkle of disapproval, " excellent 
people in every way ; but, don't you know — 

hardly " He paused, leaving an eloquent 

gap. " But, perhaps," he went on — hope- 
fully, as it were — " these are not the same 
Morrisons that you know. The name is not 
an uncommon one. My acquaintance is a 
Mr. Richard Morrison. He was — ah — 
employed till recently, I believe, in some bank 
in New York. He inherited a fortune not 
long ago. His wife and daughter " 

Betty interrupted, speaking rapidly : — 

" Yes, those are my Morrisons. I am 
travelling with them. That is to say " 

" Really ? " 

Lord Arthur's blonde eyebrows rose the 
fraction of an inch. Although he himself was 
clinging to the Morrisons with the assiduity of 
a leech, and had for some time been turning 
over in his mind the idea of making Delia 
the same handsome offer which Betty had 
declined at their last meeting, his caste pre- 
judice had remained unaltered. 

Lord Arthur Hayling was, in his curious 
way, a man of business, and to allow senti- 
ment to interfere with business was a thing 
he would never have dreamed of doing. He 
intended to marry money ; nothing would 
make him swerve from that determination ; 
but he would have welcomed a chance to 
marry a woman who attracted him in a non- 
business way; and that was why Betty's 
refusal had for the moment saddened him. 
He admired her as a woman scarcely less than 
as a human certified cheque, and to find her 
on intimate terms with these Morrisons was a 
surprise to him. 

by Google 

"Really?" he said again. Then, with 
tactful condescension : " They are most 
interesting people, are they not ? Miss 
Morrison is charmingly quaint and lively." 

" Delia is a dear," said Betty, defiantly, 
in answer to the sub-tinkle. 

" Quite so," said his lordship. 

He stroked his moustache,and Betty flushed. 
His attitude had the effect of ridding Betty of 
the nervousness which she had been feeling. 
She looked forward with a sort of grim plea- 
sure to the effect of the bomb she was about 
to explode under his lordship's nose. 

" When I say I am travelling with the 
Morrisons," she said, coolly, " I don't mean as 
a friend. I am Miss Morrison's paid com- 

She was not disappointed. Lord Arthur 
Hayling, from boyhood up, had been steeped 
in the tradition that to display emotion is 
bad form and one of the things that are not 
done, but this piece of information cracked 
the shell of detached calm in which the years 
had encased him, and for a moment his jaw 
dropped and he gaped at Betty like any 
ordinary fellow whose father had been 
connected with trade. 

He was badly shaken. Though Betty had 
refused his offer of marriage, he had not 
entirely despaired of winning her, and, 
meeting her in the company of mutual 
acquaintances, he had felt that Fate was work- 
ing for him. And now, with a firm hand, 
she had upset his air-castle. It was not 
surprising that the shock should have pro- 
duced a temporary dumbness. 

He put the natural construction on her 
statement. If Betty was in the position of 
having to earn her living as a paid companion, 
it meant that Mr. Benjamin Scobell must 
have lost his fortune. 

The narrowness of his escape shocked Lord 
Arthur. Suppose she had accepted him, and 
then this had happened ! 

Betty stood waiting for him to recover. 

" They know me as Miss Brown," she said. 
" Will you please remember that I am not 
Miss Silver any longer ? " 

" You have changed your name ? Just 
so. Exactly." 

" Thank you," said Betty. 

There was an awkward silence. Lord 
Arthur wanted to find out all about Mr. 
ScobelPs downfall, but it was not easy to start. 
He was casting about in his mind for an 
opening, when a taxi-cab drew up beside 
them, and the Morrison party got out. 

"Halloa!" said Delia. "Do you two 
know each other ? " 

Original from 



Lord Arthur prevaricated smoothly. 

ki I inquired for you in the hotel, and they 
told me that Miss Brown was the only member 
of your party who had not gone out, so we 
made each other's acquaintance." 

" She can talk French," said Delia, irrele- 
vantly. " Say, I'm starving. Let's go scare 
up some lunch." 

During the meal Lord Arthur was silent. 
He had not yet adjusted himself to the altera- 
tion in Betty. Mentally, he was on the ground 
taking the count of nine. 

Regarding the business negotiations which 
he had been conducting, he vouchsafed in 
jerks the information that the arrangements 
were practically completed. A few necessary 
formalities, and Norworth Court, in Hamp- 
shire, would be at the wanderers' disposal. 
It was one of the show-places of England, he 
went on to explain — quite the stateliest pile 
in the county, and more to the same effect. 

Delia and her father were frankly dismayed 
at the prospect of such magnificence ; but 
Mrs. Morrison rose to the occasion with 
indomitable courage. 

Even Lord Arthur's statement that Nor- 
worth was pronounced " Nooth " and had 
been the property of the baronets of that 
name since the reign of Queen Elizabeth failed 
to unnerve her. 

After lunch his lordship found himself left 
alone with Mr. Morrison, and he turned to 
the subject which was uppermost in his mind. 
He did not suppose that Mr. Morrison was 
acquainted personally with Mr. Scobell, but 
he knew that the financier had had large 
interests in America, and Mr. Morrison, being 
a member of the staff of a bank, would prob- 
ably be in a position to know the cause of the 
latter's downfall. 

" I wonder if you knew Mr. Benjamin 
Scobell, Mr. Morrison ? " he said. " Very 
sad about him." 

" Hey ? " said Mr. Morrison, nervously. 
He hated being left alone with Lord Arthur, 
of whom he stood in awe, and had been 
hoping to make a rapid retreat. 

" Mr. Benjamin Scobell, the financier," 
explained Lord Arthur. " I met his step- 
daughter some time ago. A charming girl. 
It must have come as a great blow to her." 

" Great blow ? " repeated the other, puzzled. 

" I understood that he had become bank- 

Mr. Morrison shook his head. 

" Not old man Scobell. I know all about 
him. He banked with us. I guess you're 
thinking of someone else. Old man Scobell's 
no bankrupt. At least he wasn't when I left 

Digitized by lj( 

New York. He kept a five-figure account 
with us, and it was still there when I quit. 
And I'd have heard of it if he had smashed 
since then. Why, if Scobell smashed there'd 
be a noise like as though the Singer Building 
had fallen on to a sheet of tin." 

I/)rd Arthur stared. He rose from the 
table in a state of utter bewilderment. If 
her stepfather was still a rich man, what con- 
ceivable reason could there be why Betty 
should be travelling as a paid companion 
with these Morrisons ? 

He dined at his club, and it was while he 
was sipping his coffee that his tired brain 
yielded a solution of the mystery, which, 
however fantastic, seemed to him the only 
one conceivable. 

It was a trick ! She was testing him ! 
His faded eyes glowed with excitement as the 
thing seemed to piece itself together like the 
scattered sections of a child's puzzle. It 
was, he told himself, precisely the scheme 
which a romantic girl would have devised. 
She was testing him. He had proposed to her 
when she was rich. Would she be the same 
in his eyes when she was a penniless girl, 
earning her own living ? It was to decide 
that question that she had joined the 

But he reflected she had made one mis- 
calculation when she had assumed that he 
would not ascertain the truth concerning her 
stepfather's financial status. 



After the first day London depressed Betty 

The little party gathered under the banner 
of Mrs. Morrison at the Hotel Cecil dealt with 
the city each in his or her own way. To 
Delia, though she had lived in it for some 
months, London was a strange city, and she 
and her mother set out to " do " the place 
with that grim thoroughness which is the 
peculiar property of a certain type of American 
visitor. Guide-book in hand, they swooped 
Irom spot to spot, devouring like locusts the 
Tower, London Bridge, St. Paul's, the Zoo, 
the Crystal Palace, Kew Gardens, the Cheshire 
Cheese, and the rest, at the rate of two or 
three a day. 

As for Betty, she passed what was probably 
the most miserable week of her life." The 
first excitement of her escape from Mervo 
was over, and her eyes were looking down the 
interminable vista of the years to come — a 
vista ot drab greyness, without hope or joy 
10 colour it, Delia, resolutely determined to 




enjoy herself, professed to find quaintness 
where Betty found only squalor ; but even 
Delia did not display any regret when Lord 
Arthur announced one morning that Mrs. 
Morrison's " little place " was ready for its 
new tenants, and it was decided that the 
invaders should move to Hampshire on the 
following day. 

Lord Arthur, during the week, had com- 
ported himself like a Galahad. When he 
exerted himself he could display a consider- 
able charm of manner. He exerted himself 
now. He was playing for a big stake, and he 
spared no effort. Towards Betty his manner 
was such as recalled the old days of chivalry. 
His restrained devotion was admirable. 

Betty was genuinely surprised. She had 
fancied that his lordship's mind was an open 
book to her. And she had expected that her 
announcement that she was employed by 
Mrs. Morrison as a paid companion would 
have had a chilling effect on his ardour. 

Her feelings began to alter. She was 
aching for friendship. She welcomed any- 
thing that would colour ever so slightly that 
grey vista down which she was looking. His 
lordship would have been vastly encouraged 
could he have guessed how high he stood in 
her estimation. He did not guess, for Betty, 
woman-like, felt more than she seemed to 
feel, and she struck his lordship at this early 
stage in the proceedings as regrettably 

The opening performance of a new musical 
comedy was due on the party's last night in 
London, and Mrs. Morrison had bought a 
box. Lord Arthur was to meet them at the 
theatre. The head of the family had decided 
to remain in slippered ease at the hotel. He 
had attended five theatrical performances 
during the week, and that, he held, was 

The musical comedy proved to be much 
like other musical comedies, of which Betty 
had seen two that week, and the first act 
had not been in progress long when her atten- 
tion began to wander. She looked at the 
audience. The house was crowded. She ran 
her eye slowly over the stalls below. 

And then suddenly her heart leaped, and 
she sank back quickly into the corner of the 
box, where the hanging curtain hid her. 
She had seen John. 

He was sitting at the end of the ninth row, 
evidently in the company of the man seated 
next to him, a light-haired young man with 
glasses ; for as Betty caught sight of him this 
young man bent across to make some remark. 

She sat on in a dream. The figures on the 
other side of the footlights seemed blurred 
and far away. She felt as if she were choking. 
The sight of him had quickened into life a host 
of emotions which till then had been numbed. 

She was conscious of a noise of clapping, 
and realized that the first act was over and 
that the curtain had fallen. Lord Arthur 
rose and went out to smoke a cigarette. She 
moved back farther into her corner, till her 
chair pressed against the wall. 

Delia turned to her with some question 
that she did not hear, and as she did so there 
was a knock at the door. 

" May I come in ? " said a voice in the 
doorway. " I caught sight of you at the 
end of the act, Delia, and came round to see 
if you would still speak to your old friends." 

Delia uttered a cry of surprise. 

" Why, John Maude ! Mother, this is Mr, 
Maude, whom I used to know in the office. 
John Maude, I want you to know my friend, 
Betty Brown." 

John had parted from Mr. Scobell on the 
quay at Mervo full of determination, but, as 
he discovered when he came to consider his 
plan of action, with only the vaguest ideas 
as to how he was to find the object of his 
search. As far as Paris the trail was broad 
and clear ; but there, had it not been that 
Mr. Scobell had placed no limit on the ex- 
penses of the expedition, it might well have 
been lost altogether. Unhampered, however, 
by financial obstacles, John had been able to 
make exhaustive inquiries, which had led him 
to the Gare du Nord, and there the trail had 
become clear again. Among the scores of 
employes interviewed by John was the blue- 
bloused semaphore who had so harassed Delia 
and her parents. From him John elicited the 
fact that the young lady had left the Gare du 
Nord in the Calais boat-train in the company 
of an American family of three— a father, a 
mother, and a daughter. 

It was this clue thac had brought John to 
London. He had engaged a room at the 
Savoy Hotel, and had spent his time wander- 
ing through the streets and dining and lunch- 
ing at the most popular restaurants, in the 
hope of an accidental meeting. 

Delia had begun to speak again as Betty 
turned, and her breathless monologue served 
to bridge over what would otherwise have 
been a notable silence. Betty's temples were 
throbbing. She was incapable of speech* 
And John stood in the doorway motionless. 
Him, too, the situation had deprived of words. 

by L^OOgle 

j 1 1 1 .* 1 1 1 




The orchestra had begun to tune up. All 
over the house people were returning to their 
seats. John muttered vaguely and opened 
the door. He was still dazed. 

As the door closed Delia jumped up and 
ran out into the corridor 

" Say, John Maude," she said, rapidly, " I 
want to see a lot of you. I want all the old 
pals I can get around me these days. You've 
got to come dow r n with us to our place 
in the country to - morrow. Will you ? 
Promise ! " 

" Delia," said John, " you're an angel. 
There's nothing I'd like better in the world." 

" That's a promise, then. I'll fix it with 
ma. Well, I must be going back. Say, 
Betty's a pretty girl, isn't she ? I want you 
two to be pals. She's a dear. Oh, there's the 
opening chorus, I must be getting back. 
Come around to the hotel to-morrow. And 
don't you go side-stepping that castle pro- 

" Mother," said Delia, at supper that 
night, " I've asked Mr. Maude to come down 
with us to stay at the Court to-morrow. He's 
all alone here, and I guess he's lonesome. 
That's all right, ain't it ? Why, Betty, how- 
pale you're looking ! What's the matter ? 
Ain't you well ? " 

" I'm a little tired," said Betty. 



Op the six members of the army of occupation 
which bivouacked round the tea-table on the 
upper terrace at Norworth Court two days 
later, Lord Arthur Hayling alone was com- 
pletely contented and in tune with the peace 
of the summer evening. 

To Delia and her father the atmosphere 
of permanence was frightening. Norworth 
Court gave them the feeling of being becalmed 
in a Sargasso Sea from which there was no 
escape. Before Delia's eyes rose a vision of 
Tom Spiller — unattainable Tom — beckoning 
to her from across an impassable gulf. Across 
another gulf her father saw tall buildings 
and bustling street-cars. 

Betty's emotions were of a different order. 
Norworth Court did not affect her un- 
pleasantly. In other circumstances she would 
have loved its old-world calm. But the thought 
that, postpone it as she might, sooner or later 
there must come that meeting alone with 

ifohn killed her enjoyment. Wherever she 
ooked, she seemed to meet his eyes, hurt and 
puzzled. A hundred times she had made up 
her mind to avoid the inevitable no longer, 
only to alter it at the last moment. She was 

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afraid — afraid of him, afraid of herself ; 
afraid of the pain which she must inflict and 
the pain which she must suffer. 

To John the world had never seemed so 
bleak. Things had passed completely beyond 
his comprehension. Betty's flight from Mervo 
had been only less intelligible than her avoid- 
ance of him now. His mind kept returning 
to that meeting in the Casino. Every detail 
of it stood out clearly in his memory. She 
had been friendly then. There were moments 
when he had almost persuaded himself that 
she had shown signs of being something more. 
Yet, now, she was making the most obvious 
efforts to avoid being alone with him for an 
instant. Time after time, in the brief period 
of this visit, she had done it. Sometimes 
Delia was the unconscious buffer between 
them, but more frequently Lord Arthur. 

John cast a furtive glance at his lordship 
as he sat contentedly sipping tea, and jealousy 
raged within him. Perhaps, suggested 
Jealousy, it was not merely to avoid being 
alone with him that Betty attached herself 
so closely to Lord Arthur. 

This identical thought was occupying his 
lordship's mind at that very moment, and to 
it was due his feeling of peace and that appre- 
ciation of the world and the summer evening. 
The plan of campaign which he had mapped 
out for himself appeared to be succeeding 
beyond his expectations. A little more, and 
the time would be ripe for that second attack 
which was to carry the position. 

He finished his tea and lit a cigarette. It 
was the cool of the evening, and the surface of 
the little reed-fringed lake at the foot of the 
terraces glittered with the last ra